' 


MR.  ROLFE 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 
for  <The  Hill  School  big  <The  Feroe  Press 
on  American  Featherweight  Paper  made 
bq  P.  H.  Qlatfelter  Company 


MR.  ROLFE 

of  THE  HILL 


with 


FOREWORD  by  BOYD  EDWARDS 


•BCK 

Annex 


COMPILED    AND    EDITED 

BY 
BOYD     EDWARDS 

AND 
ISAAC    THOMAS 


19.30 


DEDICATED 

TO 
THE    DEAR    MEMORY 

OF 

HIS    MOTHER 


FOREWORD 

When  Mr.  Rolfe  finally  granted  me  permission  to  bring  out 
a  book  of  his  writings  and  speeches,  my  chief  satisfaction  lay  in 
the  fact  that  I  should  have  a  very  welcome  opportunity  of  giving 
pleasure  to  every  alumnus  and  friend  of  The  Hill.  Surely  there 
is  no  man  associated  with  the  history  of  the  School  about  whom 
the  affection  and  honor  of  all  have  gathered  more  spontaneously 
and  loyally.  For  years  he  has  stedfastly  refused  with  various 
characteristically  humorous  and  modest  dodges  even  to  consider 
the  proposition  although  it  has  long  been  desired  and  requested  by 
many  of  his  colleagues  who,  knowing  him  best,  honor  him  most 
and  have  the  best  reason  for  recognizing  a  collection  of  his  work 
as  a  rich  treasury  of  good  things. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  in  his  "Apology  for  Idlers"  has  a 
word  to  say  which  is  exceedingly  apt: 

"A  happy  man  or  woman  is  a  better  thing  to  find 
than  a  five-pound  note.  He  or  she  is  a  radiating 
focus  of  good  will:  and  their  entrance  into  a  room 
is  as  if  another  candle  had  been  lighted.  We 
need  not  care  whether  they  could  prove  the  forty- 
seventh  proposition;  they  do  a  better  thing  than 
that,  they  practically  demonstrate  the  great  theorem 
of  the  Liveableness  of  Life." 

So  far  as  Mr.  Rolfe  is  concerned  any  one  of  his  friends  feels 
perfectly  sure  that  he  could  do  both  these  things.  Therefore  this 
universal  honor  which  his  colleagues  cherish  for  him  does  not  rest 
upon  a  sentimental  feeling  that  he  is  merely  a  genial  good  fellow 
but  is  based  upon  the  most  profound  respect  for  his  intellectual 
and  spiritual  quality  and  power.  And  yet  his  human  contribution 
is  his  supreme  memorial.  He  has  to  the  very  full  what  Shakespeare 
in  "Macbeth"  declared  should  accompany  old  age  (though  no- 
body will  ever  think  of  him  as  old)  :  "Honor,  love,  obedience, 
troops  of  friends." 

He  is  a  winsome  illustration  of  the  validity  of  William  Lyon 
Phelps'  appeal  in  his  recent  essay  on  "Happiness"  that  "we 
should  grow  old  eagerly,  grow  old  triumphantly."  He  exempli- 
fies the  motive  which  Shakespeare  puts  into  the  mouth  of  the 
king  in  "All's  Well  That  Ends  Well:"  "Let  me  not  live  after  my 

[   9   ] 


flame  lacks  oil."  Mr.  Rolfe's  flame  burns  as  bright  and  warm  as 
ever  and  the  good  cheer  of  it  and  the  radiant  light  of  it  brighten 
life  for  all  who  know  him.  He  proves  the  truth  of  the  proverb 
that  "A  man's  wisdom  maketh  his  face  to  shine." 

He  cracks  a  good  many  jokes  on  himself  regarding  what  he 
is  pleased  to  call  his  "ugly  countenance"  but  he  is  alone  in  think- 
ing thus  of  it.  There  is  too  much  kindness  there,  deep  understand- 
ing, quick  sympathy,  seasoned  wisdom,  gentle  strength,  quick, 
keen  interest,  the  wrinkles  left  by  kindly  laughter,  the  light  of 
kindled  thought  and  penetrating  insight  It  is  a  face  like  a  book 
whose  cover  matters  little,  which  grows  dearer  by  every  reading 
of  it. 

There  are  thousands  of  old  Hill  boys  who  can  never  forget 
what  surely  is  daily  in  the  hearts  of  all  his  colleagues,  that  "To 
know  how  to  grow  old  is  the  master  work  of  wisdom  and  one  of 
the  most  difficult  chapters  in  the  great  art  of  living." 

Recall  his  simplicity;  his  scorn  of  all  humbug  and  pose;  the 
unflagging  animation,  unwearied  patience  and  invariable  origi- 
nality of  his  teaching;  his  ready  comradeship  in  any  play  or  fun 
or  enterprise  for  the  happiness  of  the  community;  his  table  talk 
with  the  responsive  faces  turning  ever  toward  the  head  of  his 
table;  the  atmosphere  of  his  room;  his  responsiveness  to  music; 
his  dropping  in  on  you  at  night  for  a  chat:  all  his  private  help 
to  boys  about  their  work,  whether  in  his  own  or  some  other 
teacher's  subject.  Did  you  not  always  feel  that  you  gave  people 
a  real  treat  when  you  introduced  them  to  him?  What  a  maker 
he  has  always  been  of  group  atmosphere!  You  might  almost 
call  him  the  manufacturer  of  the  social  and  spiritual  climate  of 
The  Hill.  How  many  various  practices  of  youth  he  could  laugh 
them  out  of  with  the  clever  turning  of  a  verse  or  a  parable  or  a 
fable!  And  yet,  so  sound  was  his  standard  of  manliness  that  a 
boy  could  never  doubt  that  the  thing  for  which  this  master  stood 
was  fine  and  happy  and  strong.  This  is  why  it  is  so  striking  a 
fact  that  no  matter  how  long  an  old  boy  has  been  out  of  school, 
when  he  comes  back  to  visit  he  picks  up  again  with  Mr.  Rolfe 
right  where  he  left  off  long  ago  and  you  see  them  talking  or 
motoring  or  playing  together  as  if  they  were  of  equal  age  and  had 
been  classmates.  Remember  those  days  of  old  when  he  took  the 
boys  and  masters  walking  on  Sunday  afternoons  and  they  drank 
in  his  love  of  nature  and  his  intelligence  about  flowers  and  birds. 
Think  of  all  the  dormitory  relationships  of  these  thirty-eight 

[  10  ] 


years,  his  playing  of  the  'cello  in  the  orchestra,  his  interest  in  the 
Summer  Camp  at  Beach  Haven,  the  Golf  Team,  the  English  Club 
and  the  Snooze,  and  the  great  eagerness  with  which  he  has  ever 
been  sought  on  every  public  occasion  in  the  life  of  the  School  or 
the  community  at  large  for  his  unapproachable  skill  and  felicity 
as  an  after-dinner  speaker  or  an  essayist  or  a  story  teller  to 
children  or  an  interpreter  of  the  greater  elements  in  the  life  of 
youth.  Above  all,  let  no  Hill  man  or  friend  of  The  Hill  ever 
dare  to  forget  the  magnanimous  generosity  with  which,  after  the 
death  of  Professor  John,  Mr.  Rolfe  accepted  the  great  responsi- 
bility of  acting  head  master  of  the  School  and  then  the  full  head- 
mastership  with  that  chivalrous  willingness,  so  large-hearted  and 
devoted,  which  made  him  great  enough  to  lay  it  all  down  and  step 
back  into  the  ranks  in  order  that  the  son  of  John  Meigs  might 
succeed  to  his  father's  chair. 

The  Masters'  Club  in  the  new  Memorial  Building  was 
finished  and  furnished  in  his  honor  and  the  tablet  (which  is  in- 
cluded in  this  book)  set  into  the  wall  there  only  feebly  phrases 
the  reverent  respect  and  gratitude  which  all  who  love  The  Hill 
feel  most  deeply  toward  this  man. 

The  mere  outline  of  his  life  follows  here  in  order  to  remind 
all  who  read  that  such  an  outline  can  only  be  like  a  map  at  which 
one  looks  in  a  book.  But  when  one  has  followed  through  the 
roadways  that  lead  across  the  country  there  mapped  and  re- 
members the  streams  and  the  fields  and  the  forests  and  all  the 
music  and  beauty  and  fruitfulness  of  it,  it  takes  on  a  new  mean- 
ing: 

Alfred  Grosvenor  Rolfe — Born,  Boston,  Massachusetts,  August 
4th,  1860. 

Son  of  Henry  Chamberlain  Rolfe  and  Abby  Frances  Winchester. 
Graduated  Ayer  High  School,  1876. 
Graduated  Chauncey  Hall,  Boston,  1878. 
Amherst— A.  B.,  1882. 

A.    M.,    1885. 

Litt.  D.,  1913. 

Black  Hall,  Lyme,  Connecticut,  1882-1884. 
Cushing  Academy,  Ashburnham,  1884-1885. 
Williston  Seminary,  Easthampton,  1885-1886. 
Greylock  Institute,  South  Williamstown,   1886-1889. 
[  11  1 


Traveled  and  studied  abroad  1889-1890. 

The  Hill,  1890- 

Acting  Head  Master,  1911-1913. 

Head  Master,  1913-1914. 

Senior  Master  since  1914. 

There  are  some  men  to  whom  their  colleagues  have  a  right 
to  speak  out  of  that  which  lies  in  their  hearts  about  them.  Be- 
cause I  feel  that  Mr.  Rolfe  is  such  a  man  I  have  asked  his  col- 
leagues to  indicate  in  a  single  sentence  what  they  feel  to  be  his 
greatest  single  contribution  and  significance  to  the  life  of  The 
Hill  and  their  answers  follow  here: 

GEORGE  Q.  SHEPPARD  Colleague  for  38  years 

"Mr.  Rolfe  has  contributed  to  The  Hill  a  fine  influence  for  truth, 
honor,  and  appreciation  of  the  beautiful  in  literature;  above  all 
a  cheerful,  genial,  kindly,  helpful  humor." 

MICHAEL  F.  SWEENEY  Colleague  for  32  years 

"An  atmosphere  of  culture,  an  appreciation  of  humor,  a  kindly 
tolerance  of  human  frailties  and  a  high  value  of  all  of  the  noble 
qualities  that  constitute  a  gentleman." 

JOHN  D.  WARNOCK  -        Colleague  for  29  years 

"Alfred  G.  Rolfe  has  the  rare  gift  of  enveloping  his  acts  and  words 

with  a  genial  atmosphere  which  predisposes  one  to  feel  that  his 

mind   is   a  treasure   chest  containing  everything   to   make  living 

both  pleasant  and  earnest." 

LUTHER  W.  TURNER        -        -  Colleague  for  26  years 

"Unselfish  and  fearless  service  combined  with  sympathetic  under- 
standing of  the  possibilities  in  both  men  and  boys." 

GEORGE  W.  HITNER  Colleague  for  25  years 

P  aternal 
A  thletic 

R  everent 
O  mniscient 
L  ovable 
F  rivolous 
E loquent 

GEORGE  D.  ROBINS  Colleague  for  24  years 

"His  original  spirit  has  successfully  defied  the  deadening  influence 
of  routine  and  tradition  in  school  life,  while  his  delightful  non- 
sense and  merry  wit  have  cheered  the  hearts  of  generations  of 
Hill  masters  and  boys." 

[  12  ] 


CHRISTOPHER  F.  KOCEL  -      Colleague  for  23  years 

"His  integrity,  profound  idealism,  great  fund  of  wisdom,  loyalty, 
and  his  inimitable  humor,  are  but  a  few  of  the  things  I  want  to 
express." 

JOHN  A.  LESTER  Colleague  for  23  years 

"During  all  these  years  Alfred  Rolfe  has  made  us  happier  and 
better  because  we  felt  that  beneath  his  joyousness  there  was  a  love 
of  truth  that  was  unquenchable." 

HOWARD  BEMENT  Colleague  for  22  years 

"He  has  humanized  what  might  otherwise  be  educational  drill,  and 
he  has  loosened  the  shackles  of  routine  by  a  smile." 

FREDERICK  FRASER  Colleague  for  22  years 

"To  live  in  the  atmosphere  of  his  irrepressible,  bubbling  humor,  to 
be  met  throughout  every  day  with  his  same  unfailing  good  cheer, 
to  know  him  and  his  kindliness  and  gentleness  in  all  his  daily 
life,  to  watch  him  go  to  his  daily  work  as  if  to  a  happy  adventure 
along  a  delightful  road,  to  see  him  meet  life  and  the  future  with 
a  smile — these  are  among  the  rare  and  priceless  privileges  of  life 
at  The  Hill  in  association  with  Alfred  G.  Rolfe." 

FRAN  as  L.  LAVERTU  Colleague  for  22  years 

"A  most  unusual  combination  of  admirable  qualities,  unaffected 
mental  power  and  intellectual  honesty,  love  for  all  that  is  worthy, 
genial  and  inimitable  humor,  genuine  interest  and  faith  in  boys, 
kindly  wisdom,  sympathy — a  rare  and  charming  spirit  affecting 
all  who  are  so  fortunate  as  to  come  under  its  spell." 

HOWARD  SMITH  ...  .      Colleague  for  21  years 

"Mr.  Rolfe's  sound  scholarship,  genial  humor,  gracious  manner  and 
willingness  to  serve  at  all  times,  have  contributed  infinitely  to 
our  life  here  at  The  Hill." 

GEORGE  A.  BICKEL  Colleague  for  18  years 

"By  his  loyalty  and  unselfish  devotion  to  the  School,  Mr.  Rolfe 
has  contributed  in  large  measure  toward  the  building  and  main- 
taining of  the  fine  traditions  of  The  Hill." 

ISAAC  THOMAS        -        -  Colleague  for  18  years 

"With  transparent  honesty,  with  unerring  humor  that  routs  pre- 
tense yet  does  not  hurt,  with  a  kindly  spirit  capable  of  righteous 
wrath,  Mr.  Rolfe  has  become  the  greatest  character  of  The  Hill; 
he  has  mellowed  for  us  the  traditions  of  the  past;  he  goes  with  us 
now  as  guide  and  philosopher;  and  he  will  abide  always  a  friend 
to  Hill  boys." 

Miss  ALICE  W.  EMERSON  -        Colleague  for  16  years 

"I  consider  Mr.  Rolfe's  humor,  as  expressed  in  conversation,  in 
prose,  in  verse,  that  one  of  his  several  contributions  to  the  life  of 
The  Hill,  the  loss  of  which  would  'make  us  poor  indeed'." 

[  13  ] 


<§> «> 

ERNEST  H.  SANDS  Colleague  for  15  years 

"The  fact  that  Mr.  Rolfe  can  speak  or  write,  as  he  chooses,  of  a 
consecrated  life  of  service,  which  is  always  filled  with  interest- 
ing and  helpful  incidents;  and  that  the  life  happens  to  be  of 
'The  Hill'  is  the  secret  of  his  great  help  to  colleagues  and  boys." 

JAMES  I.  WENDELL  Colleague  for  14  years 

"I  think  Mr.  Rolfe  has  made  a  wonderful  contribution  to  the  cul- 
tural side  of  the  life  of  the  School,  for  every  boy  who  associates 
with  him,  either  in  or  out  of  the  class  room,  carries  away  with 
him  impressions  which  never  pass  out  of  his  life." 

CHARLES  L.  SWIFT          -  -        Colleague  for  14  years 

"A  thumbnail  biography  of  his  loyal  and  devoted  life  of  service 
might  be  offered  in  the  words,  Alfred  Grosvenor  Rolfe,  Concord, 
Massachusetts,  1860;  conquered  Pennsylvania  and  the  hearts  of 
The  Hill,  1890-1928." 

WALTER  D.  STAFFORD       -        -  -        Colleague  for  13  years 

"He  keeps  us  young." 

CHARLES  A.  HARTER  Colleague  for  10  years 

"His  unassumed  interest  in  many  of  us  has  been  more  of  an  in- 
spiration than  he  will  ever  realize." 

PAUL  A.  SCHARFF  -        Colleague  for  10  years 

"I  think  that  Mr.  Rolfe's  greatest  contribution  to  the  life  of  The 
Hill  has  been  himself, — his  splendid  character,  scholarly  attain- 
ments and  Christian  life  have  been  to  my  mind  his  greatest  con- 
tribution, and  the  significance  of  it  all  is  that  The  Hill  owes 
much  of  its  prestige  to  him  and  his  gracious  influence." 

HERBERT  B.  FINNEGAN  -      Colleague  for  9  years 

"Mr.  Rolfe's  greatest  contribution  to  The  Hill  is  himself,  because 
he  is  a  gentleman  at  all  times;  because  as  an  after-dinner  speaker 
he  is  unexcelled;  because  he  doesn't  intend  to  retire;  because  he 
has  the  courage  to  be  real;  because  as  a  master  he  never  fails  to 
inspire,  as  a  colleague  he  is  always  an  enviable  example  to  his 
associates,  and  finally  because  his  never-failing  geniality  endears 
him  to  all  who  know  him." 

HAROLD  G.  CONLEY  Colleague  for  9  years 

"Mr.  Rolfe's  unique  contribution  has  been  that  of  the  schoolmaster 
who  would  wear  his  well-earned  wreath  of  laurel  slightly  tilted 
over  twinkling  eyes." 

JASPER  J.  STAHL  Colleague  for  9  years 

"He  has  taught  all  of  us,  boys  and  masters  alike,  by  example,  the 
richer  meaning  of  life  when  it  is  leavened  with  laughter." 

[  14  ] 


STANLEY  A.  WARD  Colleague  for  9  years 

"A  life  that  'preaches  simplicity,'  that  expresses  wisdom,  patience, 
and  the  'quiet  mind'  is,  to  my  way  of  thinking,  Mr.  Rolfe's  great- 
est contribution  to  The  Hill." 

LEONARD  A.  RICE  -        Colleague  for  8  years 

"His  intellectual  brilliance  adds  lustre  to  the  School's  renown,  his 
inimitable  humor  and  charming  friendship  endear  him  to  his 
colleagues." 

WILLIAM  H.  BELL  Colleague  for  7  years 

"My  impression  is  that  Mr.  Rolfe  has  contributed  most  signifi- 
cantly to  The  Hill's  cultural  atmosphere  and  humanism." 

GEORGE  A.  DAWSON  Colleague  for  7  years 

"He  has  kept  the  heart  of  youth  and  always  left  behind  the  trail 
of  good  cheer." 

GEORGE  E.  DENMAN  -        Colleague  for  5  years 

"His  brilliant  and  charming  personality,  versatility,  unselfish  and 
joyful  devotion  to  duty  form  an  inestimable  example  for  youth." 

SAMUEL  T.  NICHOLSON  Colleague  for  5  years 

'"An  institution  himself." 

VEO  F.  SMALL  -        Colleague  for  5  years 

"Your  keen  mind  from  which  flow  gems  of  wit  and  wisdom;  your 

great  heart  so  full  of  sympathy,  love  and  courage;  your  soul  which 

reaches  to  the  Infinite  for  its  strength, — in  all,  YOU  have  kept 

the  life  blood  of  The  Hill  flowing  strong,  healthy,  and  pure." 

HERBERT  M.  KEMPTON  -        -        Colleague  for  5  years 

"His  stedfast  mien  is  ever  a  buoy  on  the  choppy  waters  of  school 
life." 

RICHARD  C.  DORR  -        Colleague  for  2  years 

"In  my  opinion,  Mr.  Rolfe's  greatest  contribution  to  The  Hill  has 
been  his  kindly  Christian  friendliness  toward  men  and  boys,  and 
his  never-failing  sense  of  humor." 

As  one  who  knows  by  experience  the  great  challenge  and 
beautiful  trust  and  responsibility  involved  in  a  headmastership, 
I  rejoice  in  the  privilege  of  acknowledging  my  inexpressible 
gratitude  and  debt  for  comradely  understanding  beyond  all  de- 
scription, for  the  truest  fellowship  that  one  could  wish  in  all  the 
deepest  interest  of  the  School,  and  for  an  unfailing  and  ever- 
willing  source  of  courage  and  of  comfort  in  every  hour  of  per- 
plexity or  aspiration.  He  has  made  The  Hill  a  home  to  me  and 
I  shall  always  be  proud  to  think  of  myself  as  one  of  his  boys. 

BOYD  EDWARDS 

[  15  ] 


TO  A.  G. 


Swept  by  the  ebbing   moments  there   they   stand, 

Sad  on  the  western  lawn.    A  blaring  car, 

Voice  of  the  turbulent  flood  which  sweeps  them  far, 

Shatters  the  floating  cadence  of  the  band. 

A  father  scans  the  prize-list  in  his  hand, 

Smoking,  disconsolate  the  choice  cigar; 

For  by  him  stands  the  lad  who  failed  to  star; 

Tom  has  not  reached  the  goal  his  father  planned. 

The  Master,  who  with  both  has  worked  and  played, 

Compares  the  straight   branch   with   the  twisted  tree, 

And  counts  the  growth  that  thirty  years  have  made; 

And  then,  with  boy-bright  eyes,  in  ecstasy, 

Contemplates,  as  the  external  visions  fade, 

God's  blazing  treasuries   of   the   boys-to-be. 


JOHN  A.  LESTER 


[  17  ] 


Vacation's  come,  away  with  melancholy-o, 
We're  going  home,  let  every  one  be  jolly-o, 
Bid  care  begone,  regret  would  be  but  folly-o, 
Every  one,  come  join  our  Jubilee. 

We've  work'd  away  from  morning  until  dewy  night, 
No  time  to  play  from  sunrise  until  candle-light, 
We've  made  our  hay  and  stored  it  safely  out  of  sight, 
Harvest's  come,  now  sing  a  song  of  glee. 

Work  without  play  is  bad  for  the  temper, 
Play  without  work  is  bad  for  the  brain. 
Work  is  done!  Now  for  fun  at  seaside  and  mountain! 
Shout!     Ring  it  out!     Vacation  again! 

Vacation's  come,  away  with  melancholy-o, 
We're  going  home,  let  every  one  be  jolly-o, 
Bid  care  begone,  regret  would  be  but  folly-o, 
Every  one,  come  join  our  Jubilee. 


[  18  ] 


LOTS  OF  PEP 

«* 


A  hush  falls  on  the  grand-stand  as  the  players  take  the  field, 

There's  a  tense  and  tingling  feeling  in  each  heart, 
For  everyone's  determined  to  make  the  foemen  yield, 

And  everyone  has  sworn  to  do  his  part. 
You  can  hear  the  players  talking  as  they  paw  the  dusty  ground, 

They  are  chanting  in  a  language  wild  and  rude, 
They  are  talking  to  the  pitcher  though  he  doesn't  hear  a  sound, 

They  are  playing  on  his  mental  attitude-tude-tude, 

They  are  playing  on  his  mental  attitude. 
"All  the  time!    Attaboy!    Lots  of  Pep!" 

And  now  the  band  is  playing,  and  they're  coming  in  to  bat, 

On  every  face  is  written,  "Do  or  die!" 
They  are  bound  to  hit  the  leather,  you  may  all  depend  on  that, 

And  they're  going  to  hit  it  squarely  in  the  eye. 
You  can  hear  the  coaches  talking,  and  their  language  is  the  same; 

With  energy  and  force  it  is  imbued. 
They  are  talking  to  the  batter,  they  are  calling  him  by  name, 

They  are  working  on  his  mental  attitude-tude-tude, 

They  are  working  on  his  mental  attitude. 
"Counts  for  you!     In  a  hole!     Lots  of  Pep!" 

The  game  of  ball  is  over  and  it's  squarely  lost  or  won, 

The  shouting  and  the  cheers  have  died  away. 
Another  game  is  scheduled  and  it  isn't  any  fun, 

It's  a  game  that  every  mother's  son  must  play. 
Sometimes  examinations,  at  other  times  it's  life, 

And  every  man  must  play  a  manly  part, 
So  gird  your  loins  for  battle,  gather  courage  for  the  fray, 

And  fling  back  every  challenge  of  faint  heart,  heart,  heart, 

And  fling  back  every  challenge  of  faint  heart. 
"All  the  time!    Counts  for  you!    Lots  of  Pep!" 


[  19  ] 


THE  WINTER  TERM 


The  Winter  Term  is  dark  and  long, 

Plenty  of  work  to  be  done, 
Nothing  lightens  the  heart  like  a  song, 

Cheer  up  and  earn  your  fun. 
The  wind  goes  sighing  through  leafless  tree, 

Plenty  of  work  to  be  done, 
You  never  can  howl  so  loud  as  he, 

Cheer  up  and  earn  your  fun, 

CHORUS: 

The  term  may  be  long,  but  the  days  are  short, 

The  hours,  how  fast  they  run, 
And  every  minute  has  time  enough  in  it 

For  a  minute's  worth  to  be  done. 

The  clouds  are  weeping,  they  hide  the  sun, 

Plenty  of  work  to  be  done, 
There's  a  silver  lining  to  every  one, 

Cheer  up  and  earn  your  fun. 
The  lessons  are  growing  long  with  the  days, 

Plenty  of  work  to  be  done, 
"Time  and  the  hour"  old  Shakespeare  says, 

Cheer  up  and  earn  your  fun. 

CHORUS: 


[  20  ] 


AND  I  HAVE  SEEN  MY  CARCASSONNE 
Oft 

In  the  heart  of  the  New  Hampshire  hills,  lies  a  village  which 
I  long  desired  to  see.  High  above  the  surrounding  plain,  the 
village  green  commands  no  view  of  wooded  hill  and  peaceful 
meadow.  Although  the  town  is  as  old  as  our  Independence,  it 
boasts  no  colonial  houses  with  fine  old  doorways  and  gardens 
where  Hollyhocks  and  old-fashioned  Yellow  Roses,  Larkspur  and 
Sweet  William  tread  their  stately  measures  through  the  warm 
days  and  fragrant  nights. 

There  is  no  village  store,  a  veritable  museum  of  long-forgot- 
ten fashions,  where  all  the  inhabitants  gather  twice  daily  to  see 
the  mail  come  in,  and  where  the  village  solons  during  the  long 
winter  evenings  sit  around  the  checker  board,  while  many  an 
"I  swan"  and  "by  gosh"  acclaim  a  shrewd  and  winning  move. 

There  is  no  old-fashioned  academy,  stately  and  dignified, 
proud  of  its  glorious  past  when  many  a  sturdy  farmer  boy  went 
forth  to  win  added  fame  for  his  alma  mater  and  play  a  man's 
part  in  the  councils  of  his  state  or  nation. 

On  Sundays,  no  church  bell  calls  the  people  to  the  house  of 
worship.  No  voices  of  children  singing  the  songs  of  Zion  are 
heard,  nor  does  the  kneeling  hamlet  drain  the  chalice  of  the  grapes 
of  God. 

In  fact,  there  are  no  children,  there  are  no  village  solons, 
there  are  no  houses,  "there  is  no  colonial  cottage  and  there  is  no 
Marjorie  Daw." 

And  yet,  when  I  saw  a  grass-grown  road  winding  away 
through  the  ferny  woods,  and  a  sign,  Roxbury,  2^  miles,  my 
heart  sang,  and  I  said,  "At  last,  unless  I  die  upon  the  road,  I 
shall  see  Carcassonne." 

Careful  inquiry  elicited  from  a  farmer  friend  the  infor- 
mation that  the  road  although  "a  little  mite  rough"  was  passable, 
but  that  two  or  three  planks  were  missing  from  the  bridge  across 
the  brook. 

"Is  there  no  ford,"  I  asked.  "Waal,"  came  the  reply,  "there 
is  a  man  down  the  road  a  piece  who  has  a  second-hand  Ford,  but 
that  wouldn't  help  you  none,  unless  you  carried  it  over.  My 
advice  to  ye  would  be  to  go  around  the  mountain  and  come  up 
the  other  side.  Tain't  more'n  fifteen  mile." 

[  21  J 


Then,  curiosity  getting  the  better  of  reticence,  "What  in  tar- 
nation do  ye  want  to  go  there  for?  Any  of  your  folks  living 
there?"  This  last  with  a  faint  chuckle. 

"Not  now,"  I  said,  and  left  him  pondering. 

We  fetched  a  wide  compass,  ploughed  our  way  for  a  mile  or 
two  over  a  road  unspeakably  rough  and  rocky,  mounted  a  little 
ascent,  and  gasped,  for  just  before  us  stood  a  little  country 
church,  spotlessly  white,  mystic  and  beautiful. 

Across  the  grass-grown  road,  the  last  surviving  house  was 
settling  down  into  its  cellar,  a  melancholy  ruin.  A  little  beyond, 
the  old  brick  school  house,  with  doors  and  windows  open  to  the 
weather,  but  with  desks  in  orderly  rows,  as  if  waiting  for  the 
children  who  could  never  come  again,  was  giving  up  the  struggle 
against  time  and  the  elements. 

And  now  you  know  the  secret.  Roxbury  is  a  deserted  town. 
One  by  one  its  children  have  heard  the  voice  of  the  siren  and 
stolen  away  until  not  one  is  left. 

The  church,  solitary  as  Lot's  wife,  and  like  her,  ever  looking 
back,  sits  brooding  over  the  past,  and  listening,  ever  listening  for 
the  voices  of  her  children. 

For  once  a  year,  on  Memorial  Day,  the  children  come  home 
again.  The  doors  of  the  church  are  thrown  open,  the  aisles  re- 
sound with  the  tramp  of  feet  and  the  sound  of  voices.  The 
music  of  the  old  familiar  hymns  is  heard  once  more  as  the  pro- 
cession winds  its  way  to  the  populous  God's  Acre. 

And  then  as  the  shadows  lengthen,  goodbyes  are  said,  the 
sound  of  voices  dies  away,  and  the  church  is  left  to  darkness  and 
the  ghosts. 

When  I  got  back,  I  asked  my  farmer  friend  how  it  happened 
that  the  hand  of  time,  which  had  pressed  so  heavily  on  all  the 
other  buildings,  had  spared  the  church. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "those  people  feel  a  kind  of  sentiment  about 
it.  You  see,  their  fathers  and  mothers  were  married  in  that 
church,  they  were  baptized  there,  and  their  folks  are  buried  in 
the  churchyard.  They'll  take  care  of  it  as  long  as  they  live. 

"Why,  d'ye  know,"  he  continued,  "once  I  saw  a  man,  a  real 
hard-headed  business  man,  looking  at  that  church  and  crying  just 
like  a  baby.  He  blew  his  nose  pretty  hard  when  he  saw  me,  and 
said  something  about  the  sun.  But  I  knew.  His  wife  and  little 

[  22  ] 


girl  were  lying  in  the  church  yard.  That  church  will  never  be 
neglected  while  he's  alive.  Get  there  all  right?" 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"Waal,  next  time  you'd  better  walk.  Them  roads  weren't 
exactly  made  for  ottos." 

I  thanked  him,  but  for  me  there  will  be  no  next  time,  for  I 
have  seen  my  Carcassonne. 


?«»  t£3» 


HONI  SOIT 


Mine  eyes  have  seen  a  little  vine  that  climbs  around  a  tree. 
It  bears  a  pretty  berry,  which  is  passing  fair  to  see 
But  if  you  run  across  it  my  advice  to  you  would  be, 
Why,  just  go  marching  along. 

CHORUS  —  Poison,    poison,    poison    ivy, 
Poison,  poison,  poison  sumac, 
Poison,  poison,  poison  ivy, 
Why  just  go  marching  along. 

There's  a  pretty  little  creature  that  is  very  like  a  cat, 
It's  black  and  white  and  cunning  and  friendly  and  all  that. 
But  if  you  run  across  it  and  the  critter  stops  to  chat, 
You'd  best  be  marching  along. 

CHORUS  —  Pretty,  pretty  little  pussy, 
Pretty  innocent  mephitis, 
Pretty,  pretty  little  pussy, 
You'd  best  be  marching  along. 


[  23  ] 


RHYME  OF  THE  SIXTH  FORMER 


Year  after  year  I've  had  my  fill 
Of  toiling  away  in  learnin's  mill, 
I've  ground  so  hard  that  it  made  me  ill, 
And  I  ain't  a  gonna  work  no  more. 

I'm  a  Sixth  Former  if  you  please, 
Don't  talk  to  me  of  A's  and  B's, 
If  I  have  a  li'l  luck  I'll  dodge  the  D's, 
But  I  ain't  a  gonna  work  no  more. 

I've  always  gone  to  bed  o'nights, 
When  some  poor  fish  turned  off  the  lights, 
But  now  altho'  my  bed  invites, 
I  ain't  a  gonna  sleep  no  more. 

Now  sleep's  all  right  for  a  sleepy  head, 
But  a  man  can't  waste  his  time  in  bed, 
There's  many  a  novel  that  must  be  read, 
And  I  ain't  a  gonna  sleep  no  more. 

I've  sat  through  lectures  long  and  dull, 
On  topics  educational, 
Attendance  now  is  optional, 
And  I  ain't  a  gonna  go  no  more. 

On  Saturday  nights  I'll  sit  at  ease, 
Or  roam  around  and  do  as  I  please, 
This  lecture  craze  is  just  a  disease, 
And  I  ain't  a  gonna  go  no  more. 

I've  taken  a  few  exams,  I'll  say, 
And  never  stayed  till  the  closing  day, 
But  now  the  prelims  are  out  of  the  way, 
I  ain't  a  gonna  pass  no  more. 

The  college  exams  are  mostly  bunk, 
And  the  men  who  made  them  out  were  drunk, 
The  brightest  boys  are  the  ones  who  flunk, 
And  I  ain't  a  gonna  pass  no  more. 

[  24  ] 


DINING  HALL  SOLILOQUY 


To  sit  or  not  to  sit,  that  is  the  question ; 

Whether  'tis  better  in  the  mind  to  suffer 

The  slings  and  arrows  of  outraged  Sixth  Formers 

And  to  say  grace  amid  the  tramp 

Of  graceless  feet, 

Or  to  prolong  the  time  by  one  brief  span 

Shaking  the  watch  the  while  that  all  may  know 

The  jade's  no  better  than  she  ought  to  be; 

The  race,  'tis  said,  is  seldom  to  the  swift, 

And  where  is  Swift? 
But  one  Sixth  Former  has  arrived  as  yet 
And  tousled  hair  proclaims  that  he 
Has  sleepless  watched  all  through  the  night, 
I  And  yet  the  time  is  up, 

So  says  the  watch. 

But  watches  are  but  vain  and  empty  shows 
<  Now  fast,  now  slow. 

The  poor  boys  linger  for  a  little  sleep, 
And  sleep,  you  know,  is  but  sore  labor's  bath, 
i  The  only  bath,  I  fear,  these  lads  will  have 

This  keen  and  nipping  morn. 
Great  Nature's  second  course, — 

Our  second  course  is  eggs. 
Chief  Nourisher  in  life's  feast, — 

That's  shredded  wheat,  I  ween, 

Carrots,  perchance. 
But,  lo,  the  Swift  has  come, 
Let  music  sound,  and  down  I  sit 

Kerplunk! 

Thus  conscience  doth  make  cowards  of  us  all, 
And  mercy  seasons  justice. 


[  25  ] 


THE  LIGHTS  OF  PARKER  FORD 

oi 

Where  the  Schuylkill  rolls  its  waters  to  the  ocean 
Down  the  valley,  not  so  very  far  away, 

There's  a  twinkling  row  of  lights 

Like  the  stars  in  summer  nights 
Shining  faint  but  clear  along  the  Milky  Way. 

Full  many  a  time  when  at  my  window  musing 
I  have  fancied  they  were  beckoning  to  me; 

And  my  soul  is  filled  with  longing 

As  old  memories  come  thronging 
Like  the  flotsam  that  is  cast  up  by  the  sea. 

As  I  wandered  one  day,  sick  at  heart  with  anguish 
And  hope  deferred  that  fills  the  soul  with  pain, 

I  beheld  a  winsome  child 

Pure  and  bright  and  undented 
And  hope  that  springs  eternal  sprang  again. 

"Winsome  child,"   I   cried,   "those   lights,   oh   whence   and 

wherefore?" 
With  a  smile  she  looked  at  me  and  shook  her  curls, 

"Those  lights?     Why,  bless  the  Lord, 

They  are  down  at  Parker  Ford, 
It's  a  home  for  feebleminded  boys  and  girls." 

Then  at  last  I  knew  the  secret  of  their  shining; 
'Tis  a  message  they  are  sending  you  and  me; 

They  are  calling  us  to  come; 

"Here,"  they  say,  "You'll  feel  at  home, 
For  the  highest  mark  they  give  down  here  is  D. 

"One  night,"  they  said,  "we  heard  a  catawauling; 
It  was  like  the  baying  of  the  hounds  of  hell, 

And  we  found  upon  inquiring 

Twas  a  thing  they  call  'Big  Siren' — 
Send  'em  here,  it's  just  the  way  we  love  to  yell. 

[  26  ] 


"And  again  when  peace  was  brooding  o'er  our  valley, 
A  far  off  sound  came  stealing  on  the  ear; 

We  could  hear  a  distant  yelling 

And  they  said  there  was  a  delling, 
Bring  'em  down,  for  freshness  does  not  flourish  here." 

This  the  message  then  these  twinkling  lights  are  sending 
To  the  lazy  and  the  grouchy  and  the  bored: 

"Pack  your  troubles  on  your  back 

Leave  the  thumbscrew  and  the  rack 
You  will  find  congenial  friends  at  Parker  Ford." 


THE  SNOOZE'S  VERSION  OF  A  MARCHING  SONG 
0* 

With  a  rub-a-dub-dub, 

With  the  accent  on  the  dub, 

We  are  coming  four  hundred  strong; 

It  is  magnificent, 

With  the  accent  on  the  scent, 

To  see  us  marching  along; 

Like  chanticleer, 

With  the  accent  on  the  clear, 

Our  song  goes  up  to  the  sky; 

While  with  fife  and  drum, 

With  the  accent  on  the  rum, 

The  men  of  The  Hill  draw  nigh. 

Then  it's  high-diddle,  low-diddle  diddle, 

Our  team  is  as  fit  as  a  fiddle, 

It  will  put  up  a  game 

Which  is  neither  slow  nor  tame, 

Ev'ry  man's  like  a  cat  on  a  griddle. 

[  27  ] 


DOUBLE  BALLADE 


At  our  last  banquet  we  had  the  pleasure  of  listening  to  a 
double  ballade.  I,  for  one,  was  fascinated  by  it,  as  one  is  fas- 
cinated by  a  live  rattlesnake  seen  through  a  pane  of  glass.  That 
night  I  found  myself  filled  with  a  burning  desire  to  write  a  bal- 
lade, but  ignorant  of  its  technique.  So  I  decided  to  interview 
a  few  members  of  the  faculty  who  are  experts  in  their  various 
fields.  In  order  to  preserve  their  animosity,  I  shall  use  only  the 
initials  of  their  names. 

First  I  called  on  Mr.  G.  Q.  S.,  who  received  me  kindly,  as  is 
his  wont. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  can  enlighten  you.  I  have  found  it  help- 
ful in  such  cases  to  use  Algebraic  symbols.  Suppose  then,  we  let 
x=a  single  ballade.  Then  you  will  see  at  once  that  2x—  a  double 
ballade,  and  there  you  are." 

I  admitted  that  I  was  there  but  added  that  I  desired  some 
information  about  the  form  and  meter  of  the  ballade. 

"The  meter,"  said  Mr.  S.,  "is  treated  fully  in  my  Arithmetic 
under  the  Metric  System.  The  form  may  be  found  in  any  Geo- 
metry." Then  he  became  reminiscent.  "In  the  early  days  of  the 
School  when  the  members  of  the  Sixth  Form  used  to  work,  a 
habit  which,  I  grieve  to  state,  has  entirely  been  abandoned,  the 
older  boys  used  to  do  double  ballades  just  for  pleasure,  using  the 
ordinary  three-place  logarithmic  tables.  The  custom,  which  was 
an  excellent  one,  was  given  up  —  first,  because  the  School  grew  so 
rapidly  and  secondly,  because  there  was  no  answer  book." 

I  thanked  Mr.  S.  and  made  my  way  to  the  office  den  of  the 
gentleman  whose  initials  are  I.  T.  I  found  him  smoking  a  huge 
pipe  and  dictating  two  letters  at  once.  However,  he  seemed  glad 
of  the  opportunity  to  relax  a  little,  dismissed  all  the  stenog- 
raphers, and  with  every  appearance  of  interest,  listened  to  my 
inquiry. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  "you  take  me  back  to  the  days  of  my 
boyhood.  We  lived  on  a  farm,  way  back  on  the  banks  of  the 
Manatawny.  On  winter  evenings,  we  used  to  sit  around  the  blaz- 
ing fire  and  listen  to  stories  of  days  long  gone  by,  tales  of  bears 
and  Indians  and  Molly  Maguires.  Just  before  bedtime,  someone 
would  slip  down  cellar  and  come  back  with  a  ballade  or  a  double 
ballade  full  of  foaming  cider." 

[  28  ] 


"Things  were  different  then,"  he  continued.  "The  winters 
were  longer  and  colder,  there  was  more  snow  and  it  was  far 
whiter,  the  apples  were  larger  and  the  cider  was  sweeter  at  first, 
and  sourer  later.  As  for  the  ballades,  it  is  impossible  to  find 
them  now.  They  were  hand-made  and  not  a  nail  or  screw  was 
used  in  their  construction.  The  best  ones  were  made  of  weeping 
willow.  They  never  leaked  a  drop." 

At  this  point  all  the  telephones  began  to  ring  and  I  took  my 
departure. 

Then  I  sought  and  found  Mr.  H.  B.  He  laid  aside  his  work 
and  listened  patiently.  Then  he  spoke. 

"My  dear  man,"  he  said,  "I  was  bred  and  born,  as  the  Bard 
has  it:  by  the  Bard,  I  mean,  as  you  may  have  surmised,  the  Bard 
of  Avon,  immortal  Shakespeare,  fancy's  child,  that  bright  morn- 
ing star  of  great  Elizabeth's  reign — let  me  see,  where  was  I?  Oh, 
yes,  I  was  bred  and  born  in  the  state  of  Michigan,  renowned  for 
its  men  of  presidential  timber  and  for  its  lovely  women.  As  a 
young  man  I  had  a  wide  acquaintance  and  whenever  I  became 
interested  in  a  young  lady,  I  wrote  her  a  ballade.  I  kept  them 
all  and  I  have  hundreds  of  them,  possibly  a  thousand.  I  will 
lend  you  a  few  and  I  am  sure  that  a  careful  perusal  of  them  will 
afford  you  all  the  information  which  you  desire.  Note  the  met- 
rical scheme  which  is  susceptible  of  some  variation,  and  the  re- 
current lines  which  characterize  this  slightly  artificial  form  of 
verse." 

I  hugged  the  precious  bundle  to  my  bosom  and  hastened  to 
my  room.  That  never-to-be-forgotten  night  I  composed  my  first 
ballade  which  I  propose  now  to  read  to  you.  I  consulted  Mr. 
F.  L.  L.  about  the  pronunciation  of  ballade  and  envoy  and  he  was 
good  enough  to  give  me  the  phonetics  for  them:  for  the  former, 
they  are  Z  upside  down,  and  W  wrongside  out;  for  the  latter  N 
dormant  and  V  rampant. 

For  the  sake  of  clearness  I  have  placed  all  of  the  recurrent 
lines  in  the  second  stanza.  I  am  not  quite  sure  what  prince  is 
invoked  in  the  envoy,  but  I  wish  it  to  be  understood  that  it  is 
not  the  proprietor  of  the  meat  market  on  High  Street.  For  him 
T  hope  to  compose  at  some  later  date,  a  villanelle. 


[  29  ] 


BALLADE 
%tt 

A  little  maid  tripped  down  the  street, 
The  wind  was  still,  the  sun  was  low, 
Her  lips  were  red,  her  smile  was  sweet, 
But  her  bonnie  e'en  were  filled  wi'  woe. 
She  looked  in  vain  for  a  place  to  greet, 
But  the  greeting  benches  were  all  o'ersib, 
So  she  staggered  on  wi'  aching  feet, 
And  a  darting  pain  'neath  her  seventh  rib. 

She  looked  in  vain  for  a  place  to  greet 
But  the  greeting  benches  were  all  o'ersib, 
So  she  staggered  on  wi'  aching  feet 
And  a  darting  pain  'neath  her  seventh  rib. 
Her  bonnie  e'en  were  filled  wi'  woe, 
Her  lips  were  red,  her  smile  was  sweet, 
The  wind  was  still,  the  sun  was  low, 
As  the  little  maid  tripped  down  the  street. 

A  kindly  voice  said,  "Dinna  greet, 
My  little  maid  wi'  eyes  so  blue, 
I'll  buy  your  flowers  so  fresh  and  sweet, 
Your  buttercups  and  meadow  rue. 
The  wife  will  bathe  your  aching  feet, 
The  bairns  will  soothe  your  darting  rib, 
Our  home  is  just  across  the  street, 
Thank  God,  the  house  is  not  o'ersib." 


ENVOY 

Should,  gracious  Prince,  you  chance  to  meet 
A  little  maid  with  eyes  of  blue, 
Greet  her  yoursel'  and  let  her  greet, 
Twill  do  her  good  and  not  hurt  you. 

[  30  ] 


THE  OLYMPIANS 


Sez  Jim: —  A  doctor  a  day 

Will  go  a  long  way 

Toward  selling  the  stock  of  The  Hill. 

We're  shipping  'em  off 

When  they  have  a  slight  cough. 

There's  no  place  like  home  when  you're  ill. 

Sez  Robbie:—          The  teachers  are  slack; 
There's  a  pitiful  lack 
Of  men  who  are  on  the  qui  vive. 
They  go  off  in  the  morning, 
They  give  us  no  warning. 
Why  don't  they  leave  word  when  they  leave? 

Sez  Dr.  J.  D.  W.:—  You've  gotta  be  firm 

When  you  tread  on  a  worm, 

And  you'd  better  wear  nails  in  your  shoes: 

So  we've  oiled  up  the  rack, 

For  the  lazy  and  slack, 

And  believe  me,  we'll  put  on  the  screws! 

Sez  Pop: —  Do  you  know  where  we're  at? 

A  boy  with  no  hat 
Came  running  right  into  my  ken; 
Sez  I,  "what's  the  game?" 
Sez  he,  "Ask  the  same 
Of  those  two  guys  who  think  they  are  men." 

Sez  Jasper: —  There's  a  serious  state 

Of  things  at  this  date, 
And  we're  taking  a  very  grave  chance; 
There  are  vandals  in  sight, 
And  they  take  much  delight 
In  tearing  great  holes  in  their  pants. 

[  31  1 


Sez  Leonard: —         I  rise  to  remark, 

And  I'm  quite  in  the  dark — 

It's  ethics  which  causes  me  pain. 

If  another  man's  boys 

Are  making  a  noise, 

Should  I  swat  'em  or  should  I  refrain? 

Sez  Henry: —  We  can't  have  enough 

Of  preventitive  stuff; 
It's  great — if  you  know  what  I  mean; 
So  let's  get  some  dope, 
A  serum  or  soap 
Which  will  make  our  boys  morally  clean. 

Sez  George  D.:—      I  heard  a  low  snore, 
And  I  opened  a  door 
And  found  half  my  hall  still  in  bed; 
When  I  asked  Mr.  Sands 
If  anyone  hands 
In  their  names,  why  he  just  shook  his  head. 

Sez  Fido:—  When  I  was  in  Prep. 

And  we  needed  more  pep, 

Some  snappy  old  grad  would  supply  it. 

It  worked  like  a  charm, 

And  it  can't  do  much  harm — 

Let's  lasso  an  old  grad  and  try  it. 

Ser  Pa.:—  The  hour  it  is  late; 

It  is  quarter  to  eight, 

And  the  meeting  adjourns  without  day. 

Let  three  merry  players 

Set  out  tables  and  chairs. 

It's  early,  who  wishes  to  play? 


[  32  ] 


MORNING  EXERCISES 


Morning  Exercises  are  so  called  because  they  come  at  noon. 
They  might  better  be  called  Meridiana.  They  are  so  skillfully 
timed  that  the  performer,  as  he  rises  to  speak,  is  greeted  by  blasts 
from  all  the  whistles  in  town,  including  our  own  sweet-toned  siren. 
This  affords  an  opportunity  for  the  members  of  the  faculty  to 
enter  without  attracting  too  much  attention. 

Morning  Exercise,  like  all  Gaul,  may  be  divided  into  three 
parts.  First,  Current  Events.  These  consist  of  one  political  state- 
ment, unimportant  if  true,  one  bit  of  biography,  usually  of  the 
sort  known  as  "From  Breaker  Boy  to  Broker,"  and  one  whopper 
which  nobody  believes.  Then  a  song  is  sung.  Care  is  taken  not  to 
offend  the  most  delicate  sensibilities  and  therefore  songs  are 
chosen  which  are  concerned  with  distant  scenes  and  battles  long 
ago.  Such  are  "Big  Red  Grange,"  "Fairest  Kiskiminetas"  and 
"North  Dakota  Forever."  These  insurrections  occur  on  Tuesdays. 

On  Thursday,  there  is  a  varied  program.  Occasionally  a 
member  of  the  School  who  is  gifted  musically,  obliges  with  a  solo 
on  piano  or  violin.  This  happens  only  too  seldom;  for  when  it 
does  occur,  it  is  like  the  shadow  of  a  rock  in  a  weary  land,  a 
lodge  in  a  garden  of  cucumbers,  or  a  draught  of  cool  water  to  a 
thirsty  camel. 

When  there  is  no  music  a  member  of  the  faculty,  chosen  by 
lot,  reads  a  selection,  also  chosen  by  lot,  about  Indians,  or  Bird 
Houses,  or  a  chapter  from  the  life  of  Mrs.  Ebenezer  Fogg,  written 
by  her  pastor,  the  Rev.  Phineas  Fish.  This  takes  more  time  than 
the  reader  anticipated  and  towards  the  end  he  is  compelled  to 
omit  every  alternate  page.  These  omissions  are  noticed  by  the 
members  of  the  Efficiency  Committee  only.  After  the  reading 
there  is  just  time  for  one  verse  of  "Jingle  Bells"  in  summer 
or  "Cherries  Are  Ripe"  in  winter. 

On  Saturdays,  when  mouths  are  full  of  sandwiches  and  minds 
of  two  recitations  still  to  come,  we  have  singing  and  cheering 
practice.  Attendance  is  compulsory  but  slim,  as  all  those  who 
have  the  slightest  connection  with  the  customary  Saturday  after- 
noon game  have  luncheon  at  this  time.  In  a  basketball  game, 
there  are  five  men  on  a  side,  but  the  minimum  number  for  lunch- 
eon is  twenty-seven.  Then,  too,  this  is  the  favorite  time  for  meet- 

[  33  ] 


ings  of  the  Discipline  Committee,  the  School  Council,  News  Heel- 
ers, Masters'  Club,  and  other  important  committees  and  organ- 
izations. 

Those  who  are  present  join  in  songs  of  Sentiment  and  Hospi- 
tality such  as  "Hail!  Hail!  to  N.  W.  Manual  Training  School," 
"Be  It  Ever  So  Humble,  There's  No  Place  Like  Tome,"  or  "Law- 
renceville,  Do  You  Love  The  Hill  as  Much  as  The  Hill  Loves 
You?" 

After  the  singing,  we  practice  our  cheers.  There  is  nothing 
more  depressing,  I  presume,  than  cheers  given  on  an  empty 
stomach,  so  to  speak,  with  nothing  to  cheer  at.  One  spontaneous 
shout  of  delight  when  a  good  play  is  made  is  worth  all  the  cut 
and  dried  cheers  that  were  ever  invented.  However,  if  we  are 
going  to  have  canned  enthusiasm,  let  us  have  the  best  brand.  "So 
then,  all  together,  fellers,  and  make  it  be  good." 

Such  are  the  Morning  Exercises,  hallowed  by  tradition  and 
long  usage.  Are  they  valuable?  Are  they  even  interesting? 
Can  they  be  improved? 

I  have  but  one  suggestion  to  make.  Let  one  period  a  week  be 
devoted  to  singing,  not  slapstick  songs  of  the  Boola-Boola  variety 
but  classical  music  of  Palestrina  or  Brahms,  or  splendid  master- 
pieces like  Blake's  "Jerusalem." 

"Bring  me  my  bow  of  burning  gold, 
Bring  me  my  arrows  of  desire." 

We  are,  I  think,  far  behind  other  schools  of  our  class  in 
vocal  music,  which  is,  after  all,  more  vital  to  the  life  of  the 
School  than  a  melodious  Big  Siren  or  even  the  life  of  Mrs. 
Ebenezer  Fogg  or  Dorothea  Dix. 


t  34  ] 


CLARA  O'HARA 


There  was  a  young  lady  named  Clara 
Whose  father  was  Michael  O'Hara. 

When  Clara  was  young 

Her  father  was  hung 
And  her  mother  removed  to  Sahara. 


He  was  hanged  by  mistake. 


And  there  in  a  cozy  oasis 
They  lived  on  a  family  basis 

With  a  monkey  or  two 

And  a  white  kangaroo 
And  a  le-o-pard  spotted  in  places. 


White  kangaroos  are  rare  in  Africa. 
[35  ] 


When  the  weather  was  more  than  half  fair 
Clara  went  to  a  school  over  there. 

It  was  kept  by  a  man 

Who  lived  in  a  khan 
Which  he  opened  each  morning  with  prayer. 


Can  openers  are  unknown  in  Africa 


When  Clara  went  off  for  a  ride 
An  antelope  ran  at  her  side. 

A  kind  elephant 

Packed  her  things  in  his  trunk 
And  th'  hyena  laughed  till  he  cried. 


It  was  a  laughing  hyena. 


Clara  tamed  a  rhinoceros 

Which  at  first  was  inclined  to  be  cross. 

But  after  a  while 

The  critter  would  smile 
And  catch  anything  you  could  toss. 


A  rhinoceros  has  a  large  mouth. 
[  36  ] 


Every  day  at  half  after  three 
Clara's  mother  served  afternoon  tea. 

It  made  them  all  laugh 

To  see  the  giraffe 
Try  to  balance  his  cup  on  his  knee. 


When  a  giraffe  sits  down,  his  knee  is  higher  than  his  head. 

Clara's  mother  once  made  a  fine  cake 
And  invited  her  friends  to  partake. 

But  a  young  hartebeest 

Who  came  to  the  feast 
Devoured  the  whole  thing  by  mistake. 


All  beasts  are  hearty. 


Once  Clara  went  off  on  a  jaunt 
Along  with  her  favorite  aunt. 

She  came  back  in  a  state 

For  sad  to  relate 
Ant-eaters  had  eaten  her  aunt. 


In  New  York,  Aunt  is  pronounced  "Ant." 
t  37  ] 


When  Clara  was  'bout  twenty-two 

She  married  a  charming  Zulu. 
He  was  gentle  and  kind 
Though  deaf,  dumb  and  blind, 

And  their  children  were  all  black  and  blue. 


Protective  Coloration. 

Illustrations  by  Buel  TrmrbriJge 


[  38  ] 


MY  WIFE 

V* 

To  the  unthinking  this  subject  may  seem  like  that  hack- 
neyed theme,  "Snakes  in  Ireland,"  but,  I  pray  ye,  nay.  One  of 
Charles  Lamb's  loveliest  essays  has  to  do  with  the  dream  children 
who  lived  only  in  his  imagination,  and  may  I  not  write  of  that 
fair  creature  who  has  lived  so  long  in  my  dreams,  even  if  at 
the  last  I  have  to  confess  that  she  is  only  what  might  have  been? 

Right  here,  may  I  take  the  reader  into  my  confidence?  Years 
ago,  when  the  world  was  young,  I  was  one  of  a  band  of  pilgrims 
who  set  sail  from  New  York  in  search  of  adventure  in  foreign 
lands.  Another  member  of  the  party  was  a  young  lady,  fair  to 
see,  and,  fairer  than  that  word,  of  wondrous  virtues.  I  had  long 
worshipped  at  her  shrine,  and  sometimes  I  thought  she  looked 
not  unkindly  on  me.  She  was  worlds  too  good  for  me,  but  with 
the  presumption  of  youth  I  went  on  board  the  ship  fully  re- 
solved ere  the  voyage  ended  to  whisper  in  her  ear  that  momen- 
tous question  which  has  but  two  possible  answers. 

Alas,  Neptune  loves  not  a  lover!  The  ship  was  small  and 
skittish  and  for  days  seemed  bent  on  turning  a  somersault  in  mid- 
ocean.  Seasick  eyes  looked  into  eyes  which  returned  but  a  fishy 
glare.  For  the  life  of  me  I  dared  not  whisper  into  anyone's  ear, 
not  even  the  deck  steward's.  When  the  voyage  ended  we  parted 
without  regret,  never  to  meet  again.  Sic  transit. 

But  let  us  return  to  our  subject.  In  minor  matters  my  wife 
has  her  own  way.  Like  all  wives  she  manages  me  beautifully, 
and,  unlike  most  husbands,  I  am  fully  aware  of  it.  There  are, 
however,  two  or  three  things  which  she  does  not  do. 

Never,  since  she  became  the  lodestar  of  my  existence  has 
she  gone  forth  to  announce  to  the  world,  "Alfred  has  a  cold,  and 
I  just  made  him  go  to  bed."  I  am  the  mildest  man  alive,  but 
I  have  certain  inalienable  rights.  Cold  or  no  cold,  I  go  to  bed 
when  I  please.  When  I  was  a  child,  I  thought  as  a  child,  I  spake 
as  a  child,  I  was  put  to  bed  as  a  child,  but  when  I  became  a  man, 
I  put  away  childish  things. 

In  the  second  place,  I  have  so  trained  my  wife  that  she  never 
pauses  in  a  doorway,  ostensibly  to  chat  with  a  friend,  but  really 
to  see  whether  the  fur  on  her  coat  is  seal  or  dyed  muskrat,  while 
raging  hundreds  fret  behind  with  polite  smiles  on  their  faces, 

[  39  ] 


but  with  murder  in  their  hearts.  Occasionally  she  lapses,  but  I 
have  only  to  whisper  in  her  ear,  "Remember  Miss  Wiggins." 

Miss  Wiggins  was  an  estimable  but  impulsive  lady  of  our 
town,  whose  death  was  tragic,  and,  so  to  speak,  unique.  She  was 
entering  a  department  store  by  a  revolving  door,  when  she 
caught  sight  of  a  friend  coming  out.  In  defiance  of  all  natural 
laws,  she  tried  to  retrace  her  steps,  with  fatal  results. 

Miss  Wiggins  was  a  universal  favorite,  and  many  epitaphs 
were  suggested  by  sorrowing  friends.  Her  pastor  favored  a 
verse  from  the  Scriptures,  "Lift  up  your  heads,  0  ye  gates, 
and  be  ye  lifted  up,  ye  everlasting  doors;"  but  the  department 
store  objected,  stating  that  it  was  mechanically  impossible.  A 
girl  friend  composed  a  touching  threnody  which  ran  as  follows: 

"She  entered  the  revolving  door 
Care-free  and  debonair. 
Alas,  she  never  reached  the  store, 
For  death  was  lurking  there." 

This,  although  much  admired,  had  to  be  abandoned,  for  the 
managers  of  the  department  store  took  violent  exception  to  it 
and  even  threatened  a  suit  for  defamation  of  character.  Fin- 
ally, a  compromise  epitaph  was  chosen,  and  visitors  to  our  beau- 
tiful Pine  Knot  cemetery  may  now  see  on  Miss  Wiggins' 
tombstone  these  simple  but  appropriate  words: 

"Enter  ye  in  at  the  straight  gate." 

One  more  of  my  wife's  negative  virtues,  and  I  am  done. 
Never  does  she,  in  public  at  least,  attempt  to  remove  spots  from 
my  clothing.  It  must  be  a  terrible  strain  upon  her  forbearance. 
My  clothes  are  covered  with  spots,  and  although  I  frequently 
change  my  coat,  like  the  leopard,  I  cannot  change  the  spots. 
Often  I  see  the  excellent  creature  looking  at  my  Sunday  black, 
her  eyes  full  of  love  and  longing  and  her  lips  moving  as  if  in 
silent  prayer;  but  she  loves  her  husband  too  well  to  go  spot 
hunting  before  other  wives.  After  we  reach  the  seclusion  of  our 
own  home,  our  program  is  simple  and  unvarying.  I  hand  over 
the  offending  garment  without  a  word,  my  wife  retires,  and  soon 
upon  the  expectant  nostril  steals  the  faint  but  unmistakable  odor 
of  Carbona. 

Such  is  my  wife,  strong  in  that  quality,  excellent  in  women, 
which  the  Greeks  called  Sophrosune,  and  which  New  Englanders 

[  40  ] 


4, » 

worship  under  the  name  of  Common  Sense.  Please  do  not  for  a 
moment  think  that  she  has  no  positive  virtues.  She  has  them  all, 
and,  if  I  make  no  mention  of  them  here,  it  is  only  because  she 
shares  them  with  all  the  other  members  of  her  sex. 

In  respect  to  the  three  negative  virtues  which  I  have  men- 
tioned, I  consider  her  unique,  a  rara  avis,  a  veritable  Koh-i-Noor 
among  women.  "Let  her  own  works  praise  her  in  the  gates." 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  MOON 


Have  you  seen  the  other  side  of  the  moon? 
It  shines  with  a  tender  light. 
And  fairy  forms  in  silver  shoon 
Dance  through  the  fragrant  night. 

There's  never  a  care  and  never  a  fear, 
And  never  a  touch  of  pain, 
So  come  away  with  me,  my  dear, 
And  your  eyes  shall  laugh  again. 


[  41  ] 


WANDERLUST 


I  should  like  to  go  to  Mexico 

And  see  them  revolute, 
And  if  there's  any  shooting 

I  should  like  to  see  them  shoot. 

I  want  to  eat  tamale  hot, 

Just  taken  from  the  kettle, 

I'd  like  to  watch  the  shadows  on 
Old  Popocatepetl. 

I  long  to  launch  my  light  canoe 

On  Titicaca's  shore, 
And  see  the  gay  alpaca 

And  hear  the  llama  roar. 

I  should  like  to  see  Potosi, 

Santa  Cruz  and  Trinidad, 
And  I've  dreamed  of  Cochabamba, 

Ever  since  I  was  a  lad. 

And  dear  old  Pernambuco 

Underneath  the  southern  skies, 

And  smiling  Parahiba, 

Land  of  love  and  land  of  lies. 

But  I  haven't  any  money, 

And  I  haven't  any  zest, 
And  it's  far  to  Titicaca, 

Pernambuco  and  the  rest. 

So  I'll  let  the  youngsters  travel 

Up  and  down  those  foreign  streams, 

And  I'll  visit  Titicaca 

By  the  fireside,  in  my  dreams. 

t  42  1 


LETTIE 


Sweet  Lettie  was  fair  as  the  morning 

When  the  day  has  just  dawned  or  is  dawning, 

Her  eyes  were  as  bright 

As  the  blessed  sunlight 
When  the  sun  comes  up  in  the  morning 
And  the  new  day  is  born  or  is  horning. 

She  lived  on  the  edge  of  the  village 
In  a  cottage  surrounded  by  tillage; 

It  was  shaded  by  trees 

And  enlivened  by  bees, 
Which  had  stung  all  the  boys  in  the  village 
When  they  raided  the  hives  bent  on  pillage. 

And  there  in  the  bright  summer  weather 
Sweet  Lettie  and  I  played  together; 

We  fished  in  the  stream 

For  suckers  and  bream, 
And  merrily  fell  in  together 
With  no  question  of  why  or  of  whether. 

In  winter  we  skated  and  coasted, 
Or  kindled  a  bonfire  and  roasted 

An  onion  or  so 

While  we  sat  in  the  snow, 
And  tasted  the  onions  we  toasted, 
While  our  toes  and  our  noses  were  roasted. 

Such  happiness  cannot  be  measured 
But  only  remembered  and  treasured; 

Ah!  the  fates  were  unkind, 

And  there  linger  behind 
Only  memories  blessed  and  treasured 
Of  our  joy  far  too  great  to  be  measured. 

[  43  ] 


For  when  Lettie  was  driving  a  tedder 
In  her  grandfather's  favorite  medder, 

The  horse  ran  away, 

And  I'm  sorry  to  say 

When  they  pried  Lettie  loose  from  the  tedder, 
She  was  dead  as  a  doornail  or  deader. 

Twas  long,  long  ago,  you  remember, 
But  it  seems  to  me  like  last  December, 

Or,  to  be  more  exact, 

As  a  matter  of  fact, 
It  really  seems  like  last  November — 
Or  possibly  late  in  September. 

**%*%* 


"THE  SMELL  OF  THE  STARS 


The  smell  of  the  stars  on  a  summer  night 
Fills  all  my  soul  with  a  pure  delight; 
The  Milky  Way  has  a  smell  of  its  own 
Like  the  breath  of  kine  as  they  saunter  home. 

The  scent  of  honey  from  Hybla's  bees 
Is  wafted  down  from  the  Pleiades, 
Blent  with  a  fragrance  rich  and  rare 
That  comes  from  Berenice's  hair. 

Aldebaran's  is  that  ravishing  smell, 
Like  a  field  of  blooming  asphodel, 
And  that  merest  scent  of  a  good  cigar, 
'Twas  left  behind  by  a  shooting  star. 

But  of  all  the  odors  I  love  the  best, 

Better  than  Araby  the  Blest, 

With  its  frankincense  and  myrrhs 

Or  spicy  islands  of  the  sea, 

Is  the  witching  odor  that  comes  to  me 

From  far-off  Betelgeuse. 

[  44  ] 


(The  following  juvenile  poems,  productions  of  a  mythical  Third  Former, 
named  Eddy  Tickler,  were  read  at  various  gatherings  of  the  literary 
organizations  of  The  Hill.) 


THE  SIXTH  FORM 


A  few  more  years  shall  roll, 

And  leave  their  scars  behind, 

And  I  shall  be  a  Sixth  Former 
And  lord  it  o'er  my  kind. 

I  shall  not  have  to  sit, 

And  wait  the  buzzer  slow, 

But  hasten  to  the  Common  Room 
And  bang  the  piano. 

I'm  told  they  do  not  work, 

But  sit  in  lordly  ease, 
And  shout  and  play  the  mandolin 

And  cut  just  when  they  please. 

They  never  go  to  bed, 

At  least  not  till  eleven, 

You  hear  them  halloa  after  lights, 
It  must  be  almost  heaven. 

They  entertained  our  Form 
One  Sunday  night,  serene, 

It  did  not  seem  like  Sunday 
But  more  like  Hallowe'en. 

They  gave  us  jolly  food 

And  then  they  had  a  show, 

The  funniest  I  ever  saw, 

And  then  —  we  had  to  go. 

C  45  ] 


Although  they  are  so  wise, 

They  sometimes  smile  on  me, 

And  'though  they  do  not  know  my  name, 
They're  kind  as  kind  can  be. 

Oh,  hasten,  hasten  in  your  course, 
Old  earth's  revolving  sphere, 

And  bring  the  day  when  I  can  say, 
This  is  my  Sixth  Form  year. 


** 


BEAUTY  IN  ALT,  THINGS 


Some  poet  once,  I  do  not  know 

His  name  nor  native  land, 
Remarked  in  words  poetical 

Quite  simple,  yet  quite  grand, 
That  if  you  have  sufficient  faith, 

And  if  your  heart  is  pure, 
You  can  find  beauty  anywhere, 

Yes,  even  in  a  sewer. 
I  used  to  think  such  words  as  these 

Were  written  just  to  sell, 
But  what  has  made  me  change  my  mind 

Are  the  gold  fish  in  the  dell. 
I  did  not  know  that  they  were  there, 

Till  one  day  when  in  search 
Of  youthful  pollywogs  I  sat 

Beneath  a  graceful  birch. 
I  looked  into  the  watery  depth, 

With  eyes  alert  and  sharp, 
When  suddenly  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  carp. 
And  then  I  said  quite  to  myself, 

That  ancient  poet  spoke  well, 
For  the  last  thing  you'd  expect  to  find, 

Is  a  gold  fish  in  the  dell. 

[  46  ] 


THE  DELL 

at 

Soliloquy  of  a  Black  Cap 

Old  Mother  Dell  is  fair  enow, 

Beneath  the  pale  moonlight, 

But  dreadful  creatures  lurk  below, 

All  hidden  from  our  sight. 

Serpents  there  be  that  writhe  and  sting, 

Half  hidden  in  the  mud, 

And  many  a  shapeless,  crawling  thing, 

All  smeared  with  ooze  and  blood. 

In  horrid  glee,  they  wait  for  me, 
Or  any  hapless  wight, 
Who  sins  against  society — 
They're  delling  boys  tonight. 

They  say  that  down  amongst  the  dead, 

Five  awful  rivers  flow. 

And  one  with  living  fire  is  red, 

And  one  is  dark  with  woe, 

And  one  is  full  of  dead  men's  bones, 

Who  did  their  brothers  kill, 

And  one  like  soul  in  torment  groans, 

And  one  is  ghastly  still. 

But  I  should  rather  make  my  way 
Amongst  those  streams  of  Hell 
Than  for  my  sin  go  plunging  in 
The  waters  of  the  Dell. 


[  47  ] 


BIG  SIREN 

Ml 

In  our  school  we  perpetrate 

A  cheer  known  as  the 

Big  Siren. 

Those  who  do  not  know  a  good  thing 

When  they  hear  it 

Call  it  "the  frog  in  the  throat." 

Vulgar  people  speak  of  it  as 

"The  Cuspidore  Cheer." 

Its  real  name,  however,  is  "The  Big  Siren" 

And  it  goes  like  this : 

When  the  psychological  moment  arrives 

The  Head  Cheer  Leader  rises  to  his  full  height 

Aided  by  a  chair  or  table,  and  says 

"Big  Siren,"  just  like  that. 

Then  he  stoops  down  and  wriggles  his  fingers 

As  if  he  were  trying  to  swim  down  hill. 

This  is  the  signal  for  everyone  to 

Clear  his  throat  and  then 

To  utter  a  short,  sharp  bark 

Like  a  pack  of  hounds 

When  the  hunt  is  on  and  the  scent  is  hot. 

This  is  repeated  until 

Every  throat  is  skinned. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  cheer 

All  who  took  part 

Applaud  themselves  with  every  appearance 

Of  relief  and  satisfaction. 

The  Big  Siren  is  most  effective 

In  the  Dining  Hall,  before  breakfast. 

It  is  also  economical, 

For  those  who  indulge  in  it  cannot  eat 

On  account  of  their  throats 

And  the  others  on  account  of 

Their  loss  of  appetite. 

If  the  song  of  the  old-fashioned  sirens 

Sounded  like  our  cheer 

[  43  ] 


It  is  no  wonder  that  Ulysses 
Stuffed  the  ears  of  his  men  with  wax 
To  keep  them  from  jumping  overboard 
And  swimming  away  from  it, 
Preferring  death  to  torture. 


BUSTS 


I  do  not  like  the  ghastly  row 

Of  busts  along  the  schoolroom  wall, 
They  are  too  cold  and  dignified, 

They  do  not  seem  alive  at  all. 

If  they  could  once  climb  down  and  take 
Our  places  'neath  the  all-seeing  eye, 

And  sweat  and  work  like  any  Turk, 

And  watch  the  creeping  hours  go  by, 

I  guess  they  would  be  glad  enough 
To  scramble  up  the  wall  again. 

I'm  sure  they  would  be  better  busts, 
And  feel  for  us  poor  souls  in  pain. 


[  49  ] 


SATURDAY 


Saturday  is  for  me 

The  best  day  of  the  week 

At  The  Hill 

Excepting  Sunday 

And  once  in  a  great  while 

Monday. 

In  the  first  place 

All  the  recitations 

Come  in  a  bunch 

And  when  lunch  time  comes 

That  dark  Shadow 

Is  lifted  for  the  week; 

Then  there  are  sandwiches 

For  all  who  get  there 

In  season. 

I  knew  a  boy,  once, 

Who  picked  up  eight, 

Here  and  there, 

But  in  such  a  case 

One  needs  to  be 

Fore-handed. 

The  afternoon  is  devoted 

To  sports  and  afternoon  tea 

Attendance  at  which 

Is,  for  the  most  part 

Optional. 

Once  in  a  while 

There  is  a  basketball  game 

Between  the  School  team 

And  the  faculty. 

The  faculty  would  do  better 

If  they  had  a  little  more  wind. 

I  suppose 

They  use  it  up 

In  the  Class  Room. 

At  evening  Chapel 

[  50  ] 


When  an  old  boy  is  present 

We  sing 

"We  March  to  Victory" 

Which  is  an  honorable  custom, 

But  difficult 

When  we  have  just  been  beaten 

In  a  big  game. 

However,  we  may  have  won 

A  great  moral  victory 

Which  is  good 

As  far  as  it  goes, 

But  doesn't  figure 

In  the  record. 

After  chapel  there  are  debates 

On  some  political  topic,  such  as 

"What  is  the  matter  with 

Czecho-Slovakia 

Beside  the  name?" 

Or  some  literary  question  like 

"Is  Algebra  a  condition  or  a  theory?" 

Then  we  gather  in  the  Common  Room 

To  look  at  a  movie 

Which  has  passed  the  Board  of  Censors, 

Some  of  whom  ought  to  consult 

An  oculist,  without  delay. 

Generally,  they  are  pretty  tame, 

But  once  in  a  while 

A  wild  one  gets  by, 

And  then  I  notice  that 

It  is  greeted  with  roars  of  laughter 

By  the  members  of  the  faculty. 

Then  we  have  creams. 

There  is  no  grace  at  creams 

Because  ice  cream  as  a  food 

Is  not  considered  blessworthy. 

Once  a  boy  bowed  his  head 

And  now 

There  is  always  a  burst 

Of  anticipatory  cachinnation, 

As  our  English  master  calls  it. 

After  the  laugh  has  subsided 

[  51  ] 


The  buzzer  sounds 

And  Mr.  Meigs  announces 

That  in  view  of  our  excellent  record 

In  something  or  other 

Breakfast  on  Sunday  will  be 

A  half-hour  later  than  usual, 

An  announcement  which  is  received 

With  evidences  of  profound  satisfaction. 

Personally  I  should  think 

That  Eleven 

Would  be  the  best  hour 

For  Sunday  Breakfast, 

Were  it  not  for  Morning  Chapel. 

Perhaps  that  could  be  moved 

To  the  afternoon 

Especially  in  the  Winter  Term 

When  there  is  no  golf. 

After  Creams 

The  jazz  orchestra  tunes  up 

And  we  have 

A  short  season  of  dancing — 

And  then,  to  bed 

Hence,  I  conclude 

That  Saturday,  at  The  Hill, 

Is  the  best  day, 

Excepting  Sunday, 

And  once  in  a  great  while 

Monday. 


[  52  ] 


SHIBBOLETH 

at 

Many  long  years  ago  the  Ephraimites  and  the  Gileadites  were 
at  war.  It  was  a  petty  war,  but  a  savage  one.  In  the  end  the 
Gileadites  were  victorious  and  gained  possession  of  the  fords  of 
the  Jordan.  As  the  straggling  Ephraimites  came  along  and  sought 
to  cross  the  river  to  home  and  safety,  they  were  forced  to  show 
their  passports.  "Art  thou  an  Ephraimite?"  was  the  question  pro- 
pounded by  their  exultant  foes.  If  the  answer  was  "Nay,"  short 
and  sharp  came  the  command  "Say  Shibboleth!"  This  was  a 
cruel  command,  for  an  Ephraimite  for  his  life  could  not  say  Shib- 
boleth. So  he  said  "Sibboleth"  and  died.  And  forty-two  thous- 
and Ephraimites  were  slain  at  the  fords  of  Jordan  on  that  bloody 
day. 

Ephraimites  and  Gileadites  are  as  dead  as  the  bulrushes  round 
little  Moses,  but  the  old,  forgotten,  far-off  tragedy  survives  in  the 
word  Shibboleth  which  has  found  a  home  in  that  asylum  for  stray 
words,  the  English  language.  In  this  company  of  distinguished 
authors  I  need  not  mention  its  present  meaning.  It  is  as  familiar 
to  you,  I  doubt  not,  as  those  other  orphans,  palladium,  open 
sesame  and  kudos.  I  am  concerned,  however,  not  so  much  with 
its  present  meaning  as  with  its  possible  application.  For  ex- 
ample : 

The  people  of  Pottstown  are  engaged  in  a  bitter  internecine 
war  with  the  burghers  of  West  Chester.  The  latter  are  victorious 
and  gain  possession  of  the  bridge  over  the  Schuylkill.  Along 
the  cement  road  fly  the  demoralized  Pottstowners  only  to  face 
their  foes  and  this  terrible  Shibboleth:  Say  "Vice  and  virtue  are 
the  vinegar  and  veal  of  life."  How  many  think  you,  would  get  be- 
yond Wice  and  Wirtue?  How  many  of  the  18,000  inhabitants  of 
this  beautiful  town  would  serve  to  swell  the  current  of  the  limpid 
stream  which  from  that  day  might  well  exchange  the  sinister  name 
of  Schuylkill  for  the  more  appropriate  and  euphonious  one, 
Eau  de  V. 

Again,  suppose  the  shibboleth  should  invade  New  England. 
As  you  know,  a  New  Englander  cannot  manage  the  letter  R.  He 
inserts  it  where  it  does  not  belong,  he  omits  it  where  it  does  be- 
long, and  there  is  no  health  in  him.  For  my  sins,  which  are  many, 
I  have  a  large  number  of  female  relatives  whose  names  without  ex- 

[  53  ] 


3> <§> 

ception  end  in  a  single  vowel  and  that  vowel  "a".  My  cousins  are 
named  Ella,  Anna,  Emma,  and  Sophia;  my  aunts,  Lydia  and 
Martha;  my  sister-in-law  Bertha  and  my  mother-in-law  Hydro- 
phobia. My  wife's  name  is  Boaz.  I  saw  to  that  before  we  were 
married.  Some  people  consider  it  an  unusual  name  for  a  woman, 
but  it  suits  me.  I  can  pronounce  it  when  I  am  in  a  hurry. 

I  reach  the  banks  of  the  classic  Concord  and  am  ordered  to 
call  the  roll  of  my  cousins.  One  would  suffice.  Sophia  would 
be  the  death  of  me,  as  so  many  times  I  feared  she  might  be  when 
we  were  young.  She  was  older  and  stronger  than  I,  and  twice 
as  disagreeable. 

Among  the  half-educated  who  live  on  Main  Street  an  ex- 
cellent Shibboleth  is  in-qui-ry.  If  Mrs.  Babbitt  places  the  accent 
on  the  first  syllable,  thumbs  down.  Better,  a  sudden  death  than 
a  lingering  life  of  inquiry. 

But  what  Shibboleth  have  we  for  the  educated — public 
orators,  diplomats,  presidential  candidates,  ambassadors  and 
potentates?  It  lies  at  hand.  We  need  only  to  drop  a  line,  baited 
with  the  following  invitation :  "We  are  planning  a  gathering  on  the 
banks  of  the  Jordan  to  celebrate  the  anniversary  of  the  ratifica- 
tion of  the  eighteenth  amendment,  and  hope  that  you  will  be  able 
to  favor  us  with  your  presence  and  a  brief  address.  You  are  at 
liberty  to  choose  your  own  subject  or,  if  you  prefer,  may  speak 
without  any  subject.  The  honorarium  is  $100.  The  courtesy  of 
a  reply  is  requested."  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten  the  reply  will 
begin  as  follows :  "I  would  be  delighted  — ."  It  is  enough.  Call 
the  executioner. 

Once  upon  a  time  two  friends  arranged  a  game  of  golf  on  our 
home  course.  As  they  left  the  first  tee,  in  sheer  lightheartedness 
one  of  them  sang  the  words  of  an  old,  old  song: 

There  was  an  old  man  named  Bill 
Who  lived  on  the  top  of  a  hill, 
He  hasn't  been  sober  since  last  October 
And  he  hopes  that  he  never  will. 

His  companion,  a  lawyer,  objected.  He  said  that  the  correct 
form  was  "He  hopes  that  he  never  shall."  They  fought  it  out  hole 
by  hole  and  carried  the  discussion  to  the  nineteenth  hole,  where 
it  became  general.  Finally,  I  was  chosen  referee  and  after  pro- 
found consideration  gave  my  decision.  In  this  company,  I  need 
not,  of  course,  state  what  it  was. 

[  54  ] 


And  why  should  I  say  more?  Time  would  fail  me,  if  I  were 
to  speak  of  you-all,  hospitable,  pick  out,  transpire,  like 
he  did  et  id  omne  genus.  Let  him  who  is  without  sin  among 
us  cast  the  first  shibboleth. 

On  Jordan's  stormy  banks  we  stand 
Each  with  his  shibboleth, 
For  one  that  gains  the  distant  strand 
A  thousand  meet  their  death. 


HYMN  AND  HAW 


The  hymn  as  the  author  wrote  it: 

"Awake,  my  soul,  stretch  ev'ry  nerve, 
And  press  with  vigor  on; 
A  heavenly  race  demands  thy  zeal 
And  an  immortal  crown." 

As  our  choir  sings  it: 

"Awaw  maw  saw,  straw  ev'ry  naw, 
And  praw  with  vawgaw  aw; 
A  hawvaw  raw  demaw  thy  zaw, 
And  an  immortaw  craw." 


[  55  ] 


1882  —  AMHERST  REUNION  SONG  —  1927 


(TuNE  —  "Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic") 

Oh,  five  and  forty  years  ago,  way  back  in  eighty-two, 
We  were  chock  full  of  ambition,  and  the  things  we  planned  to  do 
Would  have  filled  a  quarto  volume,  and  a  folio  or  two, 
When  we  were  twenty-one. 

Chorus:  —  Glory,  glory,  Alma  Mater, 
Glory,  glory,  Alma  Mater, 
Glory,  glory,  Alma  Mater, 
Tonight,  we're  twenty-one. 

Now  that  was  many  years  ago,  and  wisdom  comes  with  years, 
Our  future  lies  behind  us,  full  of  hopes  and  full  of  fears, 
And  whether  we  have  earned  the  meed  of  praise  or  only  tears, 
Tonight,  we're  twenty-one. 

Now  some  of  us  are  doctors  and  we  put  our  faith  in  pills, 
And  some  of  us  are  ministers,  assuaging  human  ills, 
And  some  are  digging  marble  up,  and  some  are  drawing  wills, 
But,  tonight  we're  twenty-one. 

And  some  are  educators,  full  of  various  kinds  of  lore, 
And  some  are  raising  cabbages,  and  some  are  keeping  store, 
And  one  is  making  gas,  although  we'd  gas  enough  before, 
When  we  were  twenty-one. 

Full  many  of  our  number  whom  we  loved  have  now  gone  West, 
And  are  waiting  for  our  coming  in  the  Islands  of  the  Blest, 
They  fought  a  gallant  battle  and  they've  earned  a  hero's  rest, 
Since  we  were  twenty-one. 

Then  close  up  ranks,  my  comrades,  and  we'll  let  the  music  play, 
Here's  a  health  to  those  who've  left  us,  and  a  health  to  those  who 

stay, 
And  a  health  to  Alma  Mater,  for  she  blessed  us  on  the  day 

When  we  were  twenty-  one. 

[  56  ] 


REUNION    SONG 
%* 

(Read  at  a  meeting  of  the  Alumni  of  the  "Little  Three") 

Come  all  ye  sons  of  Jeffery, 

Of  John  and  Ephraim, 

Forget  your  ancient  rivalry, 

And  raise  a  triune  hymn. 

Full  many  a  hard-fought  field  attests 

Your  prowess  in  a  fight, 

Let  gallant  foes  of  yesterday 

Be  plighted  friends  tonight. 

Then  raise  the  purple  banner 

And  cheer  for  Wesleyana, 

And  shout  for  the  purple  and  the  white; 

When  Sabrina  comes  a  cropper 

May  they  find  her  in  the  Hopper 

Singing  Methodistic  hymns  to  the  night. 

Now  Eph  and  Jeff  were  soldiers  bold 
Their  foes  were  flesh  and  blood, 
While  Johnny  fought  the  hosts  of  sin, 
He  was  a  man  of  God. 
Soldiers  and  saints,  they  challenge  us 
"Come,  follow  where  we  led!" 
The  foe  awaits  without  the  gates 
And  courage  is  not  dead. 

Then  raise  the  purple  banner 

And  shout  for  Wesleyana 

And  cheer  for  the  purple  and  the  white; 

Though  we  come  from  hill  or  mountain 

Or  Wultuna's  shady  fountain, 

We  are  children  of  one  family  tonight. 

[  57  ] 


CHAUNCEY    LOQUITUR 


"What's  all  this  talk  of  etiquette?" 
Said  Chauncey  boy,  one  day, 

"There's  no  such  nonsense  about,  you  bet, 
When  I  go  out  to  play. 

"I  just  cut  in  at  any  old  tee 

And  I  march  off  straight  and  stiff 
If  you  don't  look  back,  you  cannot  see 

And  anyhow,  what's  the  diff? 

"My  time  is  worth  a  lot  to  me 

And  I  do  not  like  to  wait, 
So  I  just  look  round  for  a  vacant  tee, 

I'm  giving  it  to  you  straight. 

"This  etiquette  stuff  is  out  of  date, 
All  right  for  beginners,  I'll  say, 

It  will  not  hurt  'em  a  bit  to  wait 

In  the  woods  and  see  me  play." 


[  58  ] 


GREAT  EXPECTATIONS 


C.  D.  Fraser  woke  one  day 
And  chanted  a  merry  roundelay, 
Says  he,  "It's  a  corking  day  to  play 
And  I  have  no  classes  on  Saturday." 

So  he  went  to  the  phone  and  he  sez,  sez  he, 
"Please  call  up  a  friend  or  two  for  me, 
Sweet  Kitty  M.,  and  Ed.  Durfee 
And  Elsa  L.,  and  Willie  C. 

"And  Howard  Bement,  tho'  he  has  no  style 
And  Lavy  who  sometimes  drives  a  mile, 
And  the  music  man  with  the  prominent  smile, 
And  anyone  else  who  is  free  from  guile. 

"And  then,  oh  yes,  there's  an  elderly  gent 
Who  can't  play  golf  for  a  copper  cent, 
But  he  likes  to  be  asked  just  for  sentiment, 
So  you'd  better  knock  at  the  door  of  his  tent." 

The  telephonographer  sez,  sez  she, 

"Now  Chauncey,  dear,  just  rely  on  me, 

I'll  give  'em  your  message  Q.  D.  P., 

And  I'll  knock  on  the  door  of  the  elderly  G." 

So  she  called  'em  up  and  she  told  'em  all 
That  the  hour  had  come  and  clear  was  the  call 
And  they'd  better  keep  their  eye  on  the  ball 
Or  there's  no  use  in  playing  the  game  at  all. 

Now  when  the  curfew  was  tolling  three, 
And  the  lowing  herd  wound  o'er  the  lea, 
With  his  foot  on  the  ball  and  his  eye  on  the  tee 
Young  Chauncey  addressed  the  company. 

[  59  ] 


"I  little  thought,  my  friends,"  said  he, 
"When  I  asked  you  to  join  this  jamboree 
That  you'd  all  accept.    It's  a  horse  on  me 
And  I  ask  your  respectable  sympathy. 

"We  can't  play  all  to  onct,  that's  flat, 
And  the  ladies,  of  course,  are  first.    That's  that, 
And  the  elderly  gent  with  the  shabby  hat 
Can  sit  on  the  porch  and  play  with  the  cat. 

"The  unfortunates  who  have  no  style 
Had  better  practice  putting  awhile, 
And  Lavy  who  sometimes  drives  a  mile 
May  play  with  Durfee  the  bibliophile." 

So  Chauncey  drove  mid  a  storm  of  cheers 
And  the  ladies  drove  mid  smiles  and  tears, 
And  the  putters  putted  midst  hopes  and  fears 
And  the  caddies  caddied  with  all  their  ears. 

CODA     And  the  elderly  gent  with  the  shabby  hat, 
He  sat  on  the  porch  and  played  with  the  cat. 


«*%*.* 

BOXWOODS 

at 

(Dedicated  to  J.  I.  W.) 

A  thousand  hands  have  labored  long 

Mighty  boxwoods  to  collate, 
To  shape  a  tent  and  make  it  strong 

For  said  tree  to  hibernate. 
In  those  fair  boxwoods  we  believe 

What  others  donate  we'll  receive, 
And  you  may  bet  that  we'll  not  leave 

A  single  boxwood  in  the  state. 

t  60  ] 


PLAY-AS-YOU-ENTER   SCHOOLS 
v* 

I  have  been  talking  with  my  friend,  Mrs.  Letherhed.  She 
has  four  boys  and  her  hobby  is  schools.  Like  many  others,  she 
loves  new  things  in  education. 

"I  have  found  a  new  school,"  she  said  by  way  of  greeting. 

"Indeed,"  I  replied.  That  is  about  as  much  as  one  can  reply 
to  Mrs.  Letherhed,  whose  tongue  can  no  man  tame. 

"Yes,"  she  continued.  "It's  in  an  abandoned  brewery.  Such 
a  delightful  place,  and  such  an  atmosphere.  You've  no  idea." 

"Hops?"  I  ventured. 

Mrs.  Letherhed  looked  puzzled.  Her  sense  of  humor  is  not 
highly  developed.  Then  she  brightened. 

"No,"  she  said,  "they  haven't  organized  the  dancing  classes 
yet.  They  are  going  to  have  morris  dances  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  when  the  weather  gets  settled.  They  have  arts  and  crafts 
and  manual  training  and  all  the  useful  subjects.  It's  really 
wonderful.  And  such  a  history  course!  My  James,  who  is  quite 
temperamental,  you  know,  is  crazy  about  his  history  teacher.  The 
other  night  when  he  said  his  prayers,  he  asked  if  he  might  mention 
her  name." 

"I  hope  you  let  him,"  I  said,  as  Mrs.  Letherhed  paused  for 
breath. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  she  continued.  "I  couldn't  see  that  it  would  do 
any  harm.  You  know  what  the  Bible  says  about  the  prayers  of 
children." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  I  assented,  meaning  to  look  it  up  at  the  first 
opportunity.  I  did  look  but  found  nothing.  Perhaps  that  is  what 
she  meant.  I  wonder. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  "I  must  be  running  along.  I  have 
so  enjoyed  this  little  chat  with  you.  Do  look  up  the  school. 
The  old  brewery,  you  know.  And  go  into  the  history  class.  Quite 
unique.  The  children  write  their  own  text-book." 

Mrs.  Letherhed  fluttered  away,  leaving  me  speechless,  al- 
though I  did  recover  sufficiently  to  murmur,  "Indeed,"  long  after 
she  was  out  of  hearing. 

A  day  or  two  after  our  interview  I  found  myself  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  the  old  brewery  and  resolved  to  see  what  this  wonderful 

[  61  ] 


school  was  like.  Long  experience  has  taught  me  that  Mrs.  Lether- 
hed's  judgment  is  not  infallible. 

The  gate  stood  invitingly  open,  and  I  ventured  in.  Just 
inside  I  met  a  little  maid,  who  seemed  to  be  doing  nothing  in 
particular.  When  she  saw  me  she  courtesied  and  said,  "Gie  ye 
godden,  graybeard!"  There  are  a  few  gray  hairs  in  my  beard  but 
they  never  have  been  officially  recognized,  and  the  salutation 
annoyed  me. 

"Good  afternoon,"  I  replied  with  dignity.  "Can  you  tell  me, 
my  child,  where  I  can  find  someone  in  authority?" 

"I  am  not  your  child,"  she  said  gravely.  "Perhaps  you  have 
so  many  that  you  can't  remember  them  all.  And  there's  no  one  in 
authority.  The  school  is  in  there." 

She  pointed  towards  a  door  and  resumed  her  occupation. 
Thus  dismissed,  I  opened  the  door  and  entered  a  large  room, 
cheerful  and  well  lighted.  On  the  walls  were  mottoes  and  a  large 
number  of  colored  maps  on  rollers.  I  remember  two  of  the 
mottoes:  "The  Personality  of  the  Child  is  Sacred"  and  "Individ- 
uality is  Life." 

One  urchin  was  amusing  himself  by  pulling  down  a  map  of 
the  world  to  its  full  length  and  then  letting  it  roll  up  with  a 
bang.  Doubtless,  the  modern  method  of  studying  Geography. 

The  room  was  fairly  well  filled  with  children,  who  seemed  to 
be  enjoying  themselves  hugely.  A  group  of  boys  and  girls, 
gathered  round  a  piano,  were  singing  with  gusto  a  well-known 
song,  "There's  Nobody  Home  but  the  Baby." 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  a  game  of  tag  was  in  full  swing. 
All  was  confusion  and  there  seemed  to  be  no  one  in  authority, 
but  there  was  a  certain  orderliness  about  it  all.  I  accosted  a 
small  boy  who  bumped  into  me  with  violence  and  apologized  very 
prettily. 

"Is  this  recess  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"No,  sir,"  was  the  answer.  "We  didn't  feel  like  lessons  today, 
and  so  most  of  the  teachers  have  gone  home.  Did  you  want  to  see 
Miss  Smith?  She  was  here  a  while  ago  and  played  tag  until 
her  hair  came  down.  If  you  wish  to  visit  classes,  there  aren't  any 
except  history.  That  recites  every  day.  They  say  they  like  it.  Did 
you  ever  study  history?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "I  think  I  did,  once,  but  I've  forgotten 
most  of  it  and  should  like  to  visit  the  history  class.  Where  is 
it  reciting?" 

[  62  ] 


"Well,  you  never  can  tell,"  he  said.  "We  change  pretty  often, 
for  everyone  gets  tired  of  the  same  old  room.  Have  you  tried  the 
malt  room?  We  all  like  that,  on  account  of  its  smell,  you  know. 
It's  just  through  that  door.  I  would  go  with  you,  but  I  can't  be- 
cause I'm  one  of  the  game  wardens.  We  look  after  the  little 
children  and  stop  fights." 

I  thanked  him  and  continued  my  quest.  Leaving  the  game 
room,  I  passed  along  a  corridor  and  soon  came  to  a  door  on  which 
had  once  been  a  sign  in  large  capitals,  "MALT." 

Some  ingenious  soul  had  utilized  the  capitals,  and  evolved 
the  following  motto,  "More  Art,  Less  Time,"  which  I  took  to  be 
a  condensed  version  of  "Art  is  long  and  time  is  fleeting." 

I  knocked,  at  first  timidly,  then  more  boldly.  As  there  was 
no  response,  I  opened  the  door  and  entered.  A  busy  scene  met 
my  gaze.  At  one  of  the  blackboards,  with  which  the  room  was 
well  supplied,  a  young  girl  was  drawing  with  colored  chalks.  The 
other  members  of  the  class,  fifteen  or  twenty  in  number,  were 
watching  the  performance  with  intense  interest.  As  the  work  pro- 
gressed, hands  began  to  go  up,  and  when  the  task  was  done  and 
the  artist  had  written  under  it  "Maria  fecit,"  there  was  a  general 
waving  of  arms  in  air. 

"Who  knows?"  said  the  teacher,  and  in  full  chorus  came  the 
answer,  "Marathon."  Then  all  together,  teacher  and  pupils 
chanted — 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free. 

At  this  point  the  teacher  caught  sight  of  me  and  made  me 
welcome. 

"It's  battlefields  and  biography  today,"  she  said.  "One  child 
draws  a  plan  of  a  battlefield,  and  the  others  identify  it  if  they 
can.  We  have  just  finished  that,  and  now  we  are  going  to  have 
biographies.  Each  pupil  has  written  some  verses  about  a  favorite 
character  in  history.  These  are  typewritten,  and  copies  are  given 
to  all  members  of  the  class.  Of  course,  some  of  the  verses  are 
rather  lame,  but  they  act  as  memory  stimuli.  John,  will  you  be- 
gin?" 

John  rose  and  announced  as  his  subject  "Romulus,  the 
founder  of  Rome  and  its  first  king." 

[  63  ] 


Of  all  the  ancient  Roman  kings 
Romulus  was  primus. 
He  laid  the  ancient  city  out 
Likewise  his  brother  Remus. 

"Very  good,"  said  the  teacher.  "That  gives  us  several  points 
to  remember.  The  ending  is  especially  quaint  and  pleasing. 
Now,  Elizabeth." 

Elizabeth,  a  golden-haired  maiden  of  tender  years,  arose 
blushingly  and  said:  "I  have  chosen  as  my  subject  'Claudius'  the 
admiral,  not  the  emperor.  He  threw  the  sacred  chickens  into  the 
sea  because  they  wouldn't  eat." 

When  the  sacred  chicken  brood 
Chose  to  quarrel  with  their  food, 
Claudius,  that  Roman  rude, 

Did  not  blink. 

"Drat  the  poultry  yard,"  said  he. 
"Throw  the  d- — d  things  in  the  sea. 
If  they  can't  eat  properly, 

Let  'em  drink." 

"Mother  didn't  like  the  swear  word,"  she  hastened  to  ex- 
plain, "but  father  said  it  was  'peppy.'  So  I  left  it  in.  Do  you 
like  it,  teacher?" 

The  teacher  hedged,  "While  I  do  not  approve  of  profanity 
in  general,  still  we  all  know  that  sailors,  especially  admirals, 
swear  a  great  deal.  If  we  remember  that,  perhaps  we  may  let 
it  stand.  Now,  Edward." 

Edward's  contribution  was  brief.  "I  have  written  about  two 
explorers,"  he  announced.  "They  are  Hanno  and  Pytheas." 

The  explorer  Hanno 

Played  on  the  piano 

On  his  way  to  Sierra  Leone; 

While  at  Ultima  Thule 

Pytheas,  the  unruly, 

Performed  on  the  slide  trombone. 

"Edward's  father  deals  in  musical  instruments,"  the  teacher 
explained  to  me  in  an  aside.  "Of  course,  you  know,  Edward," 
she  added  aloud,  "that  these  instruments,  while  of  undoubted 
antiquity,  were  unknown  to  the  early  explorers." 

[  64  ] 


"Oh,  yes,"  said  Edward.  "Father  said  that  they  were 
anachronisms,  but  nobody  can  play  on  those.  And  I  thought 
that  it  didn't  matter  what  they  played  on  so  long  as  they  went  to 
those  places." 

"Quite  true,"  said  the  teacher,  "You  have  only  followed  the 
example  of  the  greatest  of  English  poets,  whose  anachronisms  are 
a  matter  of  general  knowledge." 
"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Edward. 

The  next  performer  was  a  bright-eyed  maiden  named  Clara, 
whose  subject  was  Archimedes.  Clara  plunged  at  once  into  deep 
water. 

Archimedes,  old  boy, 
Found  out  the  alloy, 
In  Hiero's  best  Sunday  crown. 
He  shouted  "Eureka", 
Took  a  dose  of  paprika, 
And  died  in  the  sack  of  the  town. 
Syracuse,  212  B.  C. 

"I  don't  suppose  he  ever  heard  of  paprika,"  she  added,  "but 
I  couldn't  think  of  any  other  rhyme  for  Eureka."  Clara  seemed 
on  the  verge  of  tears  and  the  teacher  hastened  to  reassure  her. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said,  "You  have  given  us  much  food  for 
thought,  and  we  all  thank  you.  It  didn't  really  matter  what 
sort  of  dose  he  took,  did  it?" 

"Well,  it  does  to  me,"  said  Clara,  "but  I  presume  he  didn't 
care.  My  father  drinks  all  sorts  of  — " 

Here  the  teacher  thought  best  to  interrupt  and  called  upon 
a  dreamy  looking  youth  who  answered  to  the  name  of  Harold. 
Harold  stated  by  way  of  introduction  that  his  contribution  took 
the  form  of  free  verse,  a  statement  which  fell  far  short  of  the 
truth.  His  subject  was  "Decius." 

Decius, 

To  save  his  country 

In  time  of  deadly  peril 

Dedicated  himself 

To  the  infernal  gods. 

If  ever  the  call  comes, 

Go  thou 

And  do  likewise. 

[  65  ] 


"A  very  patriotic  and  pleasing  sentiment,"  said  the  teacher. 
"While  I  do  not  in  general  approve  of  vers  libre,  still  many  noted 
men  and  women  have  used  it  with  effect.  Whitman's  name  will 
occur  to  you  all.  It  must,  however,  be  used  discreetly  and  in 
moderation." 

"Like  Whitman's  candy?"  queried  Harold. 
"Yes,   although   you  must  not  confuse  the   poet  with   the 
manufacturer  of  sweets." 

"No,  ma'am,"  said  Harold. 

At  this  point  I  was  moved  to  withdraw,  but  before  I  could 
frame  a  decent  excuse  for  so  doing  the  teacher  called  upon  my 
young  friend  James  Letherhed,  and  I  decided  to  stay. 

James  announced  as  his  subject  "Hannibal"  and  prefaced  his 
performance  with  a  few  words  of  explanation. 

"I  couldn't  use  his  name  in  my  poem,  because  the  only  word 
which  rhymes  with  'Hannibal'  is  'cannibal,'  and  he  wasn't  that. 
So  I  called  him  the  Punic  commander.     I  hope  you  won't  mind." 
"Not  at  all,"  said  the  teacher.    "Please  proceed."  James  pro- 
ceeded. 

At  the  river  Ticinus 

And  Lake  Trasimenus 

And  Trebia,  one,  two,  three, 

The  Punic  commander 

Outdid  Alexander 

And  finished  the  job  at  Cannae. 

He  pounced  on  poor  Varro 

Like  a  hawk  on  a  sparrow 

And  slaughtered  his  men  without  pity. 

Please  remember  the  date 

Year  538 

Since  Romulus  founded  the  city. 

"Very  good  indeed,  James,"  was  the  teacher's  comment.  "You 
have  condensed  much  information  into  a  few  lines.  We  all  thank 
you.  And  now  we  must  stop,  for  our  time  expired  long  ago. 
Those  who  have  not  read  may  hand  in  their  poetry,  and  tomorrow 
you  will  receive  copies  of  all  the  verses  for  your  note-books.  We 
will  try  to  meet  in  the  same  room  tomorrow,  but  if  we  find  an- 
other class  in  possession  we  must  respect  the  rights  of  others, 
mustn't  we?  Perhaps  the  game  room  will  not  be  occupied.  Good- 
bye, and  don't  forget  our  guest." 

[  66  ] 


The  guest  was  not  forgotten,  and  after  I  had  shaken  hands 
with  the  departing  pupils  I  turned  to  the  teacher,  "A  remarkable 
school,"  I  said.  The  statement  seemed  reasonably  safe. 

"Yes,"  she  assented,  "I  think  it  is.  We  try  to  stimulate  inter- 
est in  the  children,  and  at  the  same  time  to  respect  their  per- 
sonality. It's  not  always  easy,  for  the  modern  child  is  so  tempera- 
mental. Personally,  I  have  been  greatly  helped  by  the  writings 
of  Burble.  You  know  him,  I  presume." 

"Not  so  well  as  I  might,"  I  answered.  "Does  he  suggest  this 
method  of  teaching  history?" 

"No,  that  is  all  my  own.  It  serves  a  definite  purpose.  The 
children  like  it,  and,  after  all,  that  is  the  essential  thing,  isn't  it?" 

Luckily,  she  didn't  seem  to  expect  a  reply,  and  I  took  my 
departure. 

That  night  I  called  up  Mrs.  Letherhed. 

"I  have  visited  your  school,"  I  announced,  "and  the  history 
class.  You  are  right  in  thinking  both  unique." 

"I  am  so  glad  you  agree  with  me,"  she  purred. 

"Yes,"  I  resumed,  "and  when  James  says  his  prayers  tonight 
he  might  mention  the  whole  school  as  well  as  his  history  teacher." 

"Well,"  she  responded  doubtfully,  "of  course  you  realize  that 
James  is  very  temperamental,  but  I  hope  he  will  feel  like  doing 
it  You  know  what  the  Bible  says  about  the  prayers  of  children." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  I  said,  as  I  hung  up  the  receiver. 


[  67  ] 


BACHELORS'  CHILDREN 

•M 

The  other  day  I  received  a  note  from  Mrs.  Letherhed.  She 
is  a.  kindly  soul,  and  occasionally  suffers  a  spasm  of  pity  for 
me  in  my  forlorn  state  of  bachelorhood.  Then  she  invites  me  to 
dinner. 

"Come  just  as  you  are,"  the  note  said.  "Very  informal.  No 
other  guests.  Come  early  and  get  acquainted  with  the  children." 

The  Letherheds  have  four  boys  and  also  a  little  girl,  charm- 
ing to  behold,  whom  they  call  "Mumps,"  her  own  childish  version 
of  her  baptismal  name,  May  Humphreys.  She  was  named  after 
her  maternal  grandmother. 

On  the  appointed  day  I  dressed  with  unusual  care,  as  one 
does  for  these  informal  affairs.  I  reached  the  house  in  good 
season  and  Mumps  opened  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  she  said.  "Muddy  will  be  glad  to  see  you. 
Daddies  hasn't  come  home  yet.  We  are  afraid  that  he  has  fallen 
again." 

"Fallen?"  I  enquired.     "I  hope  he  hasn't  hurt  himself." 

"Oh,  no!"  she  replied,  "Not  that  kind, — just  drunk.  Don't 
say  anything,"  she  added  in  an  agonized  whisper.  "The  boys 
mustn't  know." 

Now,  I  have  known  James  Letherhed  ever  since  we  went  to 
school  together  and  can  take  my  solemn  oath  that  no  soberer  man 
lives. 

Evidently  Mumps  was  suffering  from  a  fit  of  imagination, 
which,  I  have  often  been  told,  leads  a  child,  in  perfect  innocence, 
to  lie,  swear,  or  steal.  As  a  boy  I  had  at  times  similar  fits,  but 
my  parents  failed  correctly  to  diagnose  the  case,  and  their  treat- 
ment was  most  unscientific.  Enlightened  parents,  I  believe,  treat 
the  matter  casually  and  sometimes  even  encourage  their  children 
in  these  slight  eccentricities,  thereby  preserving  unimpaired  the  in- 
dividuality. 

A  leading  authority  on  the  training  of  children  cites  with 
approval  the  reply  of  a  wise  mother  whose  little  son  came  in  from 
play  and  said, 

"Mother,  you  are  a  damned  fool." 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  replied,  "Mother  knows  it.  Run  along  and 
get  ready  for  supper.  That's  a  good  boy." 

[  68  1 


I  was  trying  to  think  of  something  equally  tactful,  when 
Mumps  took  the  matter  into  her  own  hands. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said;  "he'll  find  his  way  home.  He 
always  does.  And  now  we  have  just  time  for  a  nice  comfy  game 
of  'Bears'  before  Muddy  comes  down.  You'll  be  the  bear.  Come 
on!  I'll  call  the  boys." 

With  a  sinking  heart  I  followed  Mumps  into  her  father's 
den  and  was  directed  to  take  off  my  coat  and  put  on  a  huge  bear 
skin  which  served  as  a  rug.  The  thing  had  long  been  a  stranger 
to  the  vacuum  cleaner  and  was  like  the  offence  of  Hamlet's  uncle. 
It  was  infernally  hot,  besides.  When  enveloped  in  the  skin  I 
could  see  and  hear  very  little,  but  I  realized  that  the  boys  had 
arrived,  and  I  faintly  heard  the  voice  of  Mumps  ordering  me  to 
growl,  the  while  the  whole  pack  launched  itself  upon  its  prey. 
Clouds  of  dust  filled  the  air  as  Mumps  urged  on  her  band  and 
ever  exhorted  me  to  growl  louder. 

How  long  this  game  lasted  I  know  not,  but  it  seemed  an  age. 
I  was  on  the  verge  of  choking  to  death  and  had  begun  to  feel 
strangely  indifferent  to  my  fate  when  the  attack  slackened  and 
I  heard  the  welcome  voice  of  my  hostess.  I  threw  off  the  skin, 
with  a  child  or  two,  and  with  as  much  dignity  as  I  could  command 
rose  to  receive  her  greeting. 

"I  am  so  glad  that  you  have  had  this  little  romp  with  the 
children,"  she  said.  "I  see  that  they  have  accepted  you  quite  as 
one  of  themselves.  But  now  you  must  be  formally  introduced. 
Junior  you  know  already.  The  other  boys  are  Gogo,  Buddy,  and 
Don,  and  this  is  Mother's  little  comfort,  Mumps." 

The  boys  solemnly  ducked  their  heads  for  all  the  world  as 
if  they  had  not  been  kicking  in  my  ribs  five  minutes  before,  but 
Mumps  grasped  my  hand  and  said,  "Welcome,  Englishman,"  add- 
ing by  way  of  afterthought,  "Has  the  paleface  washed  today?" 

"Perhaps  the  doctor  would  like  to  brush  up  a  little,"  said 
Mrs.  Letherhed.  "Thank  you,  Mumps  dear,  for  suggesting  it. 
Gogo  will  show  you  upstairs,  Doctor.  Gogo  dear,  shouldn't  you 
like  to  wash  your  hands  a  little,  too?" 

"No,  Muddy,  I  can't  say  that  I  should,"  was  Gogo's  dutiful 
answer. 

"Well,  dear,  think  it  over  on  the  way  upstairs,"  said  his 
mother,  "and  hurry,  please,  for  Daddy's  come." 

Our  ablutions  were  soon  over,  for  Abana  and  Pharpar  to- 

[  69  ] 


gether  could  not  have  made  me  whole,  and  Gogo  decided  to  let 
well  enough  alone. 

"What's  the  use?"  he  said;  "if  I  wash  'em  now,  they'll  be 
dirty  again  in  no  time,"  a  statement  which  I  was  unable  to  con- 
trovert. 

We  descended  and  as  I  was  shaking  hands  with  James  Lether- 
hed,  who  seemed  entirely  sober,  dinner  was  announced. 

"Usually  the  children  have  their  supper  early,"  said  Mrs. 
Letherhed,  "but  tonight  they  preferred  to  go  to  the  table  with 
you.  I  thought  you  might  like  to  hear  about  their  schools.  You 
visited  the  Brewery,  didn't  you?  And  the  '0.  A.'  is  just  as  in- 
teresting. Absolutely!" 

I  didn't  know  whether  "0.  A."  stood  for  "On  Again"  or 
"Off  Again,"  but  I  wouldn't  have  asked  for  worlds.  One  thing 
I  like  about  Mrs.  Letherhed,  she  doesn't  wait  for  an  answer.  I 
verily  believe  she  would  enjoy  a  talk  over  the  telephone  with  no 
one  at  the  other  end.  ( 

After  we  were  seated  at  the  table,  Mr.  Letherhed  remarked 
rather  gruffly,  "Bow  the  head  in  silent  grace."  Now  silent  grace 
confuses  me.  I  never  can  think  of  anything  but  "Now  I  lay  me," 
and  that  doesn't  seem  appropriate.  However,  I  was  doing  my 
best,  when  the  silence  was  broken  by  a  voice  uttering  in  a  loud 
whisper  the  words  "Hell  fire!" 

After  a  decent  interval  we  raised  our  heads,  and  Mrs.  Lether- 
hed said,  "Don,  dear,  Mother  doesn't  like  to  have  you  speak  dur- 
ing grace,  and,  if  you  must  speak,  please  try  to  find  something 
pleasanter  to  say." 

"I'm  sorry,  Muddy,"  said  Don,  "but  it  was  a  bug  that  bit  my 
leg,  and  teacher  says  that  it  doesn't  matter,  for  it's  purely  imagi- 
nary anyhow." 

The  explanation  left  something  to  be  desired  in  the  way  of 
lucidity,  but  Mrs.  Letherhed  seemed  satisfied,  and  the  subject  was 
dropped. 

The  soup  was  served,  and  I  was  thoroughly  enjoying  it,  when 
I  became  aware  of  an  animated  discussion  among  the  children. 

"He  does,"  said  Buddy. 

"No;  he  doesn't,"  said  Mumps. 

"Well,  he  does  half  and  doesn't  the  other  half,"  added  Gogo. 

I  must  have  looked  bewildered,  for  Mrs.  Letherhed  inter- 
vened. 

"At  the  '0.  A.'  the  children  have  a  class  in  Propriety  and 

[  70  ] 


Manners,"  she  explained.  "At  their  last  session  they  learned 
rhymes  about  table  etiquette.  It  makes  them  observant.  Who  will 
recite  for  the  Doctor?" 

All  volunteered,  but  the  irrepressible  Mumps  beat  them  to  it 

"The  most  enlightened  and  select, 
While  eating  soup,  hold  head  erect, 
And  after  ev'ry  dainty  sip 
Just  touch  the  napkin  to  the  lip." 

"You  did  the  first  part  all  right,"  she  continued,  "but  you 
didn't  do  the  second.  Perhaps  it  was  on  account  of  the  napkin. 
Tomato  is  rather  smudgy,  but  we  have  plenty  more." 

"Do  you  want  to  know  how  to  start  the  meal  right?"  broke 
in  Buddy.  "Any  meal?  Well,  I'll  tell  you. 

"When  after  grace  you  raise  the  head, 
Reach  out  and  take  a  piece  of  bread. 
Break  bread  in  half;  then  you  may  say, 
It's  going  to  be  a  lovely 


It's  turning  out  a  cloudy 
Well,  it  has  been  a  stormy 


day." 


"You  could  fit  in  the  right  words,  couldn't  you?"  he  con- 
tinued anxiously.  "Teacher  said  that  any  one  with  ordinary  in- 
telligence would  have  no  difficulty." 

"I  could  try,"  I  answered.  "And  now  tell  me  who  writes 
these  rhymes.  They  are  very  ingenious." 

"We  don't  know,"  said  Buddy.  "We  think  teacher  writes  'em 
herself.  She  has  'em  in  a  book  with  Thoughts  and  Fancies  on  the 
cover.  Her  face  all  crinkles  up  when  she  reads  'em.  We  call  her 
Tunny-face'." 

By  this  time  another  course  was  served,  some  sort  of  game — 
wild  duck,  I  thought.  It  was  deliciously  cooked,  and  I  was 
dwelling  with  enjoyment  on  every  mouthful  and  trying  to  recall 
the  opening  lines  of  Bryant's  noble  poem,  To  a  Waterfowl,  when 
my  teeth  encountered  some  hard  substance.  Fearing  for  my 
fillings,  I  removed  it  and  laid  it  beside  my  plate.  It  was  a  little 
pellet  of  lead.  I  trusted  that  my  action  had  been  unobserved,  but 
I  might  have  known  better.  Like  a  flash  the  hawk-eyed  Mumps 
was  on  me,  with  the  following  bit  of  friendly  advice: 

[  71  ] 


"When  with  your  food  you  chance  to  chew 
Something  that  breaks  a  tooth  or  two, 
Don't  hasten  to  proclaim  the  fact, 
But  swallow  teeth  and  all,  with  tact." 

"Thank  you,  Mumps."  I  said.  "Your  teacher  seems  to  have 
provided  for  any  emergency." 

"Your're  quite  right,  Doctor,"  replied  Mumps.  "We  have 
verses  for  when  you  spill  things,  and  the  eggs  are  bad,  and  your 
fingernails,  an'  ev'rything." 

Luckily,  at  this  time  coffee  was  brought  in,  and  Mrs.  Lether- 
bed  changed  the  subject. 

"Now,  chicks,"  she  said  rather  plaintively,  "I  do  hope  you 
won't  ask  for  coffee  tonight.  You  know  how  wakeful  and  fussy 
it  made  you  the  last  time." 

The  boys  acquiesced.  Evidently  they  didn't  care  for  coffee, 
but  Mumps  calmly  remarked,  "Three  lumps,  Muddy,  and  just 
a  dash  of  cream,"  and  there  the  discussion  ended. 

I  like  to  stir  my  coffee  thoroughly  and  was  doing  so,  think- 
ing unutterable  thoughts  the  while,  when  the  whole  crew  broke 
into  song. 

"It's  not  considered  quite  the  thing 
To  play  with  fork  or  napkin  ring, 
Nor  is  it  well  to  sit  and  moon 
And  row  your  coffee  with  your  spoon." 

"Cheer  up,  Doctor,"  said  Mumps.  "Everybody  does  it.  We've 
only  just  cured  Muddy  and  Daddies." 

"It  is  odd,"  said  Mrs.  Letherhed,  "how  many  people  have  that 
little  mannerism.  Even  when  they  use  no  sugar.  It  must  be  a 
survival,  I  suppose,  like  always  giving  your  right  hand,  and  the 
buttons  on  the  back  of  your  coat" 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply  Mrs.  Letherhed  arose,  and, 
preceded  by  the  children,  we  made  our  way  to  the  drawing  room. 
I  had  firmly  resolved  to  play  no  more  games,  for  I  felt  I  had 
been  sufficiently  butchered  to  make  a  Letherhed  holiday.  How- 
ever, I  need  not  have  concerned  myself  on  the  subject.  We  had 
hardly  reached  the  drawing  room  when  Mumps,  whose  ways  are 
past  finding  out,  delivered  herself  as  follows: 

"I  suppose  you  old  dears  want  to  smoke  and  enjoy  your- 
selves in  your  own  way.  Very  well.  We'll  be  off.  And  don't 

[  72  ] 


bother  your  head  about  us,  Muddy.  We'll  brush  our  teeth  and 
say  our  prayers,  and  all  that.  Come  on,  boys!  First  up:  Play 
up  and  play  the  game!" 

She  darted  from  the  room  with  the  boys  in  full  cry,  hot  on 
her  trail.  With  shrieks  of  joy  they  swept  up  the  stairs.  There 
was  a  crash,  a  slamming  of  doors,  and  "Silence  like  a  poultice 
came  to  heal  the  blows  of  sound." 

I  knew  that  I  ought  to  say  something  about  the  children, 
but  I  could  think  of  nothing  which  really  would  do  them  justice. 
I  grew  up  in  a  Christian  family,  and  my  vocabulary  is  limited. 

Mrs.  Letherhed  broke  the  silence. 

"Dear  Doctor,"  she  said  earnestly,  "you  have  no  children 
and  can  little  imagine  what  delight  we  parents  feel  when  we  see 
these  precious  personalities  expanding  day  by  day,  unfolding,  so 
to  speak,  like  so  many  lovely  flowers." 

I  tried  to  think  of  a  delicate  way  of  suggesting  that  some 
flowers  shut  up  at  night,  but  before  I  had  succeeded,  Mrs.  Lether- 
hed was  off  again. 

"I'm  afraid  you  found  them  a  bit  talkative  tonight,  especially 
Mumps,  but  one  mustn't  repress  them,  must  one?  I  know  of 
nothing  sadder,  nothing  more  tragic  than  a  repressed  personality. 
You  know  what  the  Bible  says  about  tying  a  millstone  about  the 
neck  of  one  of  these  little  ones?" 

"Yes  indeed,"  I  assented,  "it  would  be  terrible." 

"Then  we  are  so  fortunate  in  our  schools,"  she  continued.  "I 
do  not  believe  any  other  town  in  the  country  has  two  such  schools 
as  the  Brewery  and  the  O.  A." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  I  assented  heartily. 

"The  children  love  their  school,"  she  went  on.  "Every  mo- 
ment is  filled;  when  they  are  not  doing  one  thing,  they  are  doing 
another.  They  are  so  busy  and  so  happy  that  they  have  no  time 
to  form  bad  habits.  You  have  no  idea  how  much  quieter  and 
more  thoughtful  they  are  at  home." 

"Do  they  smoke?"  I  asked.  I  knew  that  unfolding  flowers 
never  smoked,  but  I  wasn't  sure  about  unrepressed  personalities. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Letherhed.  "I  hope  not. 
James  is  twelve,  but  that  is  too  young,  I  think.  The  other  boys 
are  still  younger.  I  don't  like  to  ask  them  about  it.  Occasionally 
I  have  smelled  of  them  after  they  have  gone  to  sleep,  and  I  never 
have  detected  the  odor  of  tobacco." 

"I  have  told  the  children,"  said  Mr.  Letherhed,  joining  the 

[  73  ] 


conversation  for  the  first  time,  "that  I  don't  want  them  to  smoke 
at  present,  but  that  if  they  feel  they  must  smoke,  I  want  them  to  do 
it  openly,  with  their  mother  and  me.  I  think  they  will  do  it.  They 
are  pretty  sensible,  after  all." 

"James,"  I  said,  do  you  remember  how  you  and  I  used  to 
sneak  out  behind  your  barn  and  smoke  sweet  fern?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied;  "and  Father  caught  us  there  one  day.  I 
gave  up  smoking  then  and  didn't  take  it  up  again  for  twenty  years. 
Father  didn't  seem  to  approve.  He  was  strongly  built  about  the 
arms,"  he  continued  with  a  reminiscent  grin. 

"And  head,"  I  added.  James  seemed  about  to  agree,  but  he 
caught  his  wife's  eye  and  lapsed  into  silence,  and  I  rose  to  take 
my  departure. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Letherhed,"  I  said,  as  I  took  her  hand,  "you 
little  know  what  it  means  to  a  lonely  old  bachelor  to  be  taken 
into  the  bosom  of  a  family  like  yours.  I  shall  always  think  of 
your  house  as  a  real  asylum." 

"And  of  yourself  as  a  most  welcome  inmate,  I  trust,"  was 
her  cordial  reply,  and  I  passed  out  into  the  night. 

I  am  still  wondering  whether  she  meant  what  I  did. 


WHISTLES 


Those  who  have  been  in  Hades  say 
That  whistles  blow  there  all  the  day, 
And  ev'ry  time  a  whistle  blows, 
Some  poor  lost  soul  to  torment  goes. 

In  Pottstown,  too,  the  whistles  blow, 
But  lost  souls  have  no  place  to  go; 
So  let  us  change  our  domicile, 
And  try  the  other  place  a  while. 

t  74  ] 


TO  HOWARD  BEMENT 

Of 
Upon  His  Convalescence  from  Scarlet  Fever 

Hippity,  hop! 

Howard,  old  top! 

Come  awa'  and  join  us  again; 

Slough  off  your  skin 

As  fast  as  you  kin 

And  take  your  umbrella  and  reign! 

I'm  free  to  confess 

That  we're  all  in  a  mess 

And  English  is  all  gone  to  ruin. 

For  Edgar  is  mad 

And  Swiftibus  bad 

And  Lester  as  wild  as  a  loon. 

Isaac  Thomas  is  making 

Believe  he  is  taking 

Your  place  as  a  dining-hall  sealer; 

But  he  puts  cheek  by  jowl 

The  Fox  and  the  Fowl 

The  Wombat,  the  Skunk,  and  Muskeeter. 

The  Reading  Club  meets 

While  Oscar  Wilde  bleats 

And  Swiftibus  curses  and  mutters; 

While  Isaac  and  I 

Do  nothing  but  sigh — 

Come  awa'  and  pour  oil  on  the  waters. 

Then  hippity,  hop! 

Howard,  old  top! 

Come  awa'  and  join  us  again; 

Slough  off  your  skin 

As  fast  as  you  kin 

And  take  your  umbrella  and  reign. 

[  75  ] 


TO  THE  BEMEIVTS 


0,  fair  Bements,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon, 
But  since  you're  really  going, 

Will  you,  please,  accept  this  boon? 
And,  when  you  contemplate  this  urn 

And  gaze  upon  the  tray, 
We  beg  you  to  remember 

Your  friends  so  far  away. 

Don't  let  the  proud  Ash-villains 

Monopolize  your  hearts 
Don't  let  the  hookworm  get  you 

And  transfix  you  with  his  darts. 
Of  course,  you  will  grow  languid 

Beneath  the  tropic  skies, 
Where  the  lotus  flower  is  blooming 

And  the  laundry  never  dries. 

And  when  you're  tired  of  hearing 

The  alligator's  bark 
And  of  gazing  at  the  faces 

Which,  tho'  friendly,  are  all  dark, 
Just  remember  you're  head  master 

And  can  travel  'round  at  will, 
You  will  find  a  welcome  waiting 

From  your  friends  here  at  The  Hill. 


[  76  ] 


INFORMATION  TEST 


Identify : 

1.  The  Cham  of  Tartary. 

2.  The  Begum  of  Sarawak. 

3.  The  Phoenix  of  Phoenixville. 

4.  Two  breakfast  sprinters. 

5.  "Ma"  Ferguson's  husband. 

Finish  the  following  titles: 

6.  Huckleberry  — 

7.  Where  do  we  go  — 

8.  So  is  your  — 

9.  Hot  — 

10.  Boo-hoo-la  — 

True  or  false: 

11.  President  Coolidge  was  born  in  1730. 

12.  John  Quincy  Adams  was  a  crustacean. 

13.  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  took  place  in  1620. 

14.  Paul  Revere  rode  from  Ghent  to  Aix. 

15.  Two  minuses  make  a  plus. 

Change  these  quotations  to  their  correct  form: 

16.  "Mary  had  a  little  goat, 

'Twas  covered  o'er  with  wool; 
The  teachers  soon  got  Mary's  goat 
When  Mary  went  to  school." 

17.  "Tiger,  Tiger,  burning  bright, 

What  have  you  done  with  the  bulldog?" 

18.  "Too  tough  to  bite." 

19.  "And  those  who  came  to  cough  remained  to  spray!" 

20.  "Oui,  nous  n'avons  pas  de  bananes." 

What  is  meant  by  each  of  these: 

21.  Big  Ben? 

[  77  ] 


22.  Big  Bertha? 

23.  Big  Bill? 

24.  Big  Business? 

25.  Big  Siren? 

Who  were: 

26.  Zenophelad  ? 

27.  Jahzeel? 

28.  The  Gunites? 

Locate: 

29.  The  mouth  of  the  Mississippi. 

30.  Brown  Willy. 

31.  Kansas  City,  Mo. 

32.  Why  doesn't  the  Dell  freeze? 

33.  From  your  present  position  in  which  direction  is  the 
moon? 

34.  How  many  boys  sleep  through  the  rising  bell? 

35.  How  much  does  a  tin  can  hold? 

Who  is  or  was: 

36.  The  Wizard  of  Oz? 

37.  The  Old  Maid  of  New  Orleans? 

38.  Bozes? 

39.  Slippery  Sam? 

40.  Sanguinary  Sarah? 

Arrange  in  order  of  size: 

41.  Great  Neck,  Far  Rockaway,  Plymouth,  Vt. 

42.  How  much  does  a  two-cent  stamp  cost? 

Identify : 

43.  Andrew  W.  Cantelope. 

44.  The  Ruffians. 

45.  Captain  Applejack. 

46.  "Slim"  Goldstein. 

47.  Of  what  two  elements  is  hash  chiefly  composed? 

48.  How  much  of  an  ice-cream  is  below  the  waist-line? 

49.  From  what  direction  does  the  East  wind  blow? 

50.  How  many  feet  in  a  brick  yard? 

[  78  ] 


HISTORICAL  EXERCISES 


(The  following  jingles  were  written  to  give  zest  to  courses  in  History) 


GREEK  CODS 

Zeus  was  the  father  of  gods  and  men, 

A  rollicking  monarch  was  he. 

Hades  was  king  of  the  underworld, 

Poseidon,  god  of  the  sea. 

Phoebus  Apollo  was  god  of  the  bow, 

And  patron  of  music  and  art. 

Hermes,  the  herald,  was  worship'd  by  all 

Who  traded  in  shop  or  in  mart. 

Hephaestus  was  god  of  the  fire  and  the  forge, 

Dionysus  was  god  of  the  vine, 

While  Ares'  delight  was  in  battles  and  fight 

When  blood  flowed  as  freely  as  wine. 


GALEN  AND  STRABO 

When  old  folks  were  ailin' 

They  hunted  up  Galen, 

And  straightway  recovered  or  died; 

While  young  folks  in  stages 

Were  thumbing  the  pages 

Of  Strabo's  pictorial  guide. 

oi 


ILIAD  AND  ODYSSEY 

The  men  of  the  Iliad  had  two  eyes 
But  their  houses  had  only  one  L. 
The  hero  of  the  Odyssey  was  far  too  wise 
To  be  caught  when  Circe  tried  her  spell. 

[  79  ] 


PREPAREDNESS 

In  ancient  Athens  dwelt  a  man 
Whose  name  was  Anstides, 
Upright  he  was  as  a  12-quart  can, 
But  very,  very  sot  in  his  idees. 

He  and  Themistocles  couldn't  agree; 
Themistocles  wanted  a  navy; 
"Give  me  a  trireme  or  two,"  sed  he 
"And  we'll  beat  the  world,  by  gravy!" 

Aristides,  on  the  other  hand, 

Was  keen  for  a  bigger  army; 

"We've  beaten  the  heathen  once  on  the  land, 

As  soldiers  they're  middlin'  balmy. 

"Why,  don't  you  remember  Marathon? 
It  wasn't  much  of  a  battle, 
When  Miltiades  started  out  on  the  run 
The  Persians  stampeded  like  cattle." 

So  he  and  Themistocles  fought  it  out 
With  considerable  heat  and  gism 
Till  folks  got  tired  of  hearing  them  shout 
And  resorted  to  ostracism. 

They  didn't  have  paper  to  spare  in  them  days 
So  they  simply  recorded  their  wishes 
By  scratching  a  name  in  various  ways 
On  shells  and  fragments  of  dishes. 

Election  day  was  clear  and  bright, 
The  omens  were  good  as  they  make  e'm; 
Whole  flocks  of  birds  were  seen  on  the  right 
Where  nobody  could  mistake  'em. 

Aristides  was  up  with  the  dawn 

Being  naturally  somewhat  excited, 

To  see  whether  he  would  have  to  move  on 

Or  Themistocles  would  be  indicted. 

[  80  ] 


While  writing  his  vote  on  a  bit  of  jug 
Which  his  wife  had  fished  out  of  the  cellar, 
He  caught  sight  of  a  man  who  looked  like  a  thug 
And  surely  was  feeling  quite  meller. 

This  man  said,  "Bo,  will  you  write  my  vote 
For  one  of  my  fingers  is  leery, 
I'm  all  for  Themistocles  and  his  boat 
Artstides  makes  me  weary." 

"But  why,  my  man,  he  is  not  to  blame 

If  one  of  your  fingers  is  bust," 

"Oh,  heck,"  said  the  man,  "I  am  tired  of  his  name 

And  hearing  him  called  'the  Just'." 

The  polls  were  closed  and  they  swept  away 
The  shells  of  departed  bivalves 
And  'lowed  that  Themistocles  won  the  day 
And  the  two  no  longer  were  rivals. 

Three  years  passed  by  and  the  Persians  came 
In  numbers  simply  appalling, 
But  Salamis  brought  them  nothing  but  shame 
And  Xerxes  heard  somebody  calling, 

And  back  he  went  to  the  Orient 
With  language  far  better  unspoken, 
And  Amtides  came  back  content 
And  the  Persian  yoke  was  broken. 

The  thug-faced  man  fell  over  a  cliff 
And  fractured  his  duodenum, 
While  A.  and  T.  got  over  their  tiff 
With  nothing  unpleasant  between  'em. 

The  moral  is  plain  as  a  fish's  fins: 
One's  joy  is  another's  sorrow, 
And  whether  the  army  or  navy  wins 
There'll  be  a  new  day  tomorrow. 


[  81  ] 


ALEXANDER 

In  334 

Alexander  opened  the  door 

To  Persia's  rich  and  golden  store. 

In  333 

He  forced  the  Persian  king  to  flee 
And  captured  all  his  family. 

In  332 

Tyre  was  captured,  Gaza  too, 
And  Egypt  soon  her  master  knew. 

In  331 

Arbela's  bloody  fight  was  won 
And  Alexander  ruled  alone. 

Eastward  his  empire  took  its  way 
And  distant  nations  owned  his  sway 
From  Indus  e'en  to  far  Cathay. 

His  fleet  sail'd  the  uncharted  sea, 
He  held  the  ancient  world  in  fee, 
He  dreamt  of  conquests  yet  to  be. 

Who  drives  the  chariot  of  the  sun 

Must  heed  the  fate  of  Phaethon. 

He  fell  —  and  left  his  work  undone. 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES 

St.  Simeon  Stylites 

Had  chronic  neuritis, 

It  came  from  high  living,  my  dears. 

Dressed  like  a  gorilla 

He  lived  on  a  pillar 

For  thirty  odd  long,  happy  years. 

[  82  ] 


THE  ROMAN  POETS 

Plautus  wrote  plays  in  the  earlier  days 

When  the  Romans  were  just  a  bit  raw; 
Terence  came  later,  when  folks  were  sedater 

And  his  dramas  have  greater  eclat. 
The  wise  and  the  specious  are  fond  of  Lucretius, 

Who  wrote  of  "the  nature  of  things," 
While  the  poems  of  Catullus  still  soothe  us  and  lull  us, 

So  sweet  is  the  song  that  he  sings. 

The  three  great  poets  of  the  Golden  Age 

Were  Flaccus,  Maro  and  Naso, 
Their  fame  was  secure  when  the  world  was  young, 

And  while  time  endures  it  will  stay  so. 
Flaccus,  the  poet  of  the  "golden  mean," 

Wrote  Satires  and  Odes,  wise  and  witty; 
Naso  wrote  tales  from  the  classic  myths, 

And  was  banished  from  Rome,  more's  the  pity. 
Maro's  theme  was  the  founding  of  Rome, 

And  the  deeds  of  the  Trojan  hero; 
His  works  will  be  read  when  we  all  are  as  dead 

As  Tiberius  Gracchus  or  Nero. 


WRITERS  OF  PROSE 

The  earliest  writers  of  Latin  prose 

Were  Cicero,  Caesar  and  Sallust; 
Their  style  was  as  pure  as  the  winter  snows 

And  carried  considerable  ballast. 
Cicero's  speeches  were  models  of  power, 

And  gained  him  tremendous  applause; 
Sallust,  however,  was  equally  clever 

And  wrote  about  African  wars; 
While  Caesar's  delight  was  reviewing  the  fight 

With  the  Gauls  and  the  fair-haired  Germans, 
And  Cicero  wrote  some  essays  of  note 

Which  were  better  than  barrels  of  sermons. 


NOTE: — These  verses  were  used  in  Ancient  History  classes;  the  proper 
names  were  left  blank  and  the  students  were  asked  to  fill  the  blanks 
as  an  exercise  in  review. 

[  83  ] 


CATO  THE  CENSOR 

Cato,  the  Censor,  was  old  and  rough, 

His  face  was  grim  and  his  voice  was  gruff, 

He  looked  for  trouble  and  found  enough, 

Tristis  erat  imago. 

Carthage  was  always  a  thorn  in  his  side, 
Carthage  was  proud  and  he  hated  pride, 
And  so  at  the  end  of  each  speech  he  cried: 

Delenda  est  Carthago! 


BRENNUS  AND  CAMILLUS 

"Woe  to  the  vanquished!"  cried  Brennus  the  bold, 
"The  weight  of  my  sword  you  must  pay  in  gold, 

Rome  is  ours  to  have  and  to  hold." 

Enters  Camillus  with  army  at  heel 
"Kneel,  bold  Brennus,"  he  shouted,  "kneel, 

Rome  is  ransomed  with  Roman  steel!" 


fflPPARCHUS  AND  PTOLEMY 

Old  Dr.  Hipparchus, 

That  eminent  star-cuss 

Fell  dead  while  counting  the  stars. 

While  Ptolemy  later 

Discovered  the  natur' 

Of  planets  like  Venus  and  Mars. 

[  84  ] 


QUERIES 

Who  swept  the  pirates  from  the  sea? 
Whose  tomb  is  at  Pasargadae? 
Who  caused  a  Cimbric  slave  to  flee? 

Who  won  the  day  at  Marathon? 
Who  built  the  stately  Parthenon? 
Who  captured  lovely  Babylon? 

Who  saw  his  brother  in  a  dream? 

Who  plunged  and  crossed  a  fatal  stream? 

Who  walked  in  shady  Academe? 

Who  said,  "How  long,  O  Catiline?" 
Who  built  a  bridge  across  the  Rhine? 
Who  played  the  lyre  and  led  the  Nine? 

Who  built  a  city  on  the  Nile? 

Who  wrote  about  a  crocodile? 

Who  cramped  the  Roman  nobles'  style? 


EUCLID 

Now  Euclid,  you  see, 

Taught  Geometry 

With  dignity,  likewise  decorum. 

He  once  gave  a  D 

To  King  Ptolemy 

For  flunking  the  pons  asinorum. 


[  85  ] 


KINGS  OF  ENGLAND 

First,  William  the  Norman  I  let  you  to  wit, 
Who  conquered  the  country  and  ruled  over  it. 
He  forced  all  the  nobles  to  pledge  him  their  troth 
And  bound  them  anew  by  the  Salisbury  oath. 

Then  William  called  Rufus  whose  barons  soon  felt 
The  weight  of  the  blows  which  their  sovereign  dealt. 
His  life  was  cut  short  by  an  arrow  which  laid 
Him  dead  in  the  forest  his  father  had  made. 

Then  Henry  the  Scholar  who  strengthened  his  claim 
By  wedding  a  Saxon,  pray  what  was  her  name? 
The  King's  son  was  lost  when  the  "White  Ship"  went  down 
And  his  daughter,  Matilda,  fell  heir  to  the  crown. 

Now  Stephen,  the  nephew  of  Henry,  appears 
Who  fought  with  Matilda  for  many  long  years. 
The  powerful  barons  acknowledged  no  law 
Till  the  treaty  of  Wallingford  ended  the  war. 

Next,  Henry  of  Normandy,  Anjou  and  Maine, 

A  powerful  king  and  a  glorious  reign. 

Remember  a  Becket,  the  "turbulent  priest," 

Who  was  dragged  to  the  altar  and  slain  like  a  beast. 

Then  Richard,  brave-hearted,  who  ruled  by  the  sword, 
And  sailed  to  recover  the  tomb  of  our  Lord. 
The  tomb  of  our  Lord,  did  he  gain  it,  or  not? 
Read  "The  Talisman"  written  by  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

King  John  was  an  obstinate,  little-souled  man 

Who  fought  with  the  church  and  came  under  its  ban. 

A  braggart  in  speech  but  a  craven  in  deed 

He  signed  the  Great  Charter  at  fair  Runnymede. 

Then  Henry  the  Third  in  whose  very  long  reign 

The  Arts  and  the  Sciences  flourished  amain. 

Under  Simon  of  Montfort  the  barons  rebelled. 

What  two  battles  were  fought  ere  the  rising  was  quelled? 

[  86  ] 


Next  Edward  the  First,  the  weight  of  whose  hand 
Was  felt  by  the  Jews  whom  he  drove  from  the  land. 
The  Welsh  and  the  Scots  acknowledged  his  sway 
And  the  old  stone  of  Scone  came  to  London  to  stay. 

King  Edward  the  Second,  an  unworthy  son, 
At  Bannockburn  lost  what  his  father  had  won. 
Brave  Bruce  and  his  men  came  into  their  own, 
The  "Ordainers"  arose  and  the  King  lost  his  throne. 

Then  Edward  the  Third  who  had  a  brave  son. 

Together  they  fought  and  together  they  won 

At  Crecy  and  Sluys  and  the  siege  of  Calais, 

And  the  knighthood  of  France  bit  the  dust  at  Poitiers. 

In  the  reign  of  King  Richard  the  Second  appears 
Wat  Tyler  who  set  all  the  land  by  the  ears. 
The  king's  banished  cousin  came  home  to  be  crowned 
And  captured  poor  Richard  who  "sat  on  the  ground." 

When  Henry  of  Lancaster  came  into  power 

All  Wales  took  up  arms  under  Owen  Glendower. 

The  flames  of  revolt  blazed  up  in  the  North; 

For  further  details  read  "King  Henry  the  Fourth." 

Then  Henry  the  Fifth  who  played  tennis  with  France 
And  led  the  rash  Dauphin  full  merry  a  dance. 
A  battle  was  fought  on  St.  Crispian's  Day, 
And  a  princess  of  France  was  carried  away. 

Next  Henry  the  Sixth  in  whose  ill-fated  reign 
The  French  won  the  day  and  a  martyr  was  slain. 
The  red  rose  and  white  in  turn  ruled  the  hour, 
And  the  king  lost  his  crown  and  died  in  the  Tower. 

Then  Edward  the  Fourth  who  wore  the  white  rose 
And  in  spite  of  proud  Neville  prevailed  o'er  his  foes, 
This  king  was  a  patron  of  commerce  and  trade 
And  shared  in  the  fortunes  his  subjects  had  made. 

[  87  ] 


Then  Edward  the  Fifth  who  was  king  for  an  hour 
But  was  soon  set  aside  and  died  in  the  Tower ; 
And  Richard,  his  uncle,  whose  bloodthirsty  reign 
Was  ended  at  Bosworth  where  Richard  was  slain. 

Next  Henry  who  married  a  princess  of  York 
And  filled  up  his  coffers  by  aid  of  the  "fork." 
John  Cabot  sailed  forth  new  countries  to  seek, 
And  scholars  at  Oxford  taught  Latin  and  Greek. 

Then  Henry  the  Eighth  who  long  lived  in  hope 
That  his  marital  knot  would  be  cut  by  the  Pope. 
The  king  was  ordained  as  the  head  of  the  church 
And  the  nuns  and  the  friars  were  left  in  the  lurch. 

Next  Edward  the  Sixth  who  was  gentle  and  mild; 
When  he  came  to  the  throne  he  was  only  a  child. 
The  great  Reformation  swept  on  to  its  close, 
And  cries  of  distress  from  the  farmers  arose. 

Then  Mary,  who  married  her  cousin  of  Spain 
And  brought  back  the  wicked  old  order  again. 
She  signed  the  death  warrant  of  Lady  Jane  Gray 
And  mourned  with  the  nation  the  loss  of  Calais. 

And  then  came  Elizabeth's  glorious  reign 

When  the  sea-rovers  humbled  the  navies  of  Spain. 

Full  many  a  singer  burst  forth  into  song 

Where  the  Avon  and  Thames  rolled  their  waters  along. 

The  Stuarts  were  next,  from  Scotland  they  came, 
With  James  at  their  head,  the  sixth  of  that  name. 
King  James  was  a  stubborn,  extravagant  Scot; 
Remember  Guy  Fawkes  and  the  Gunpowder  Plot. 

And  now  drop  a  tear  for  the  pitiful  fate 
Of  Charles  who  believed  that  the  King  was  the  State. 
He  was  beaten  in  battle,  was  captured  and  tried; 
Like  a  tyrant  he  ruled,  like  a  Christian  he  died. 

[  88  ] 


Then  Merry  Prince  Charlie  came  back  to  his  own 
And  the  regicides  gathered  the  crop  they  had  sown. 
The  "wonderful  year"  brought  disasters  untold, 
And  the  king  sold  his  honor  to  Louis  for  gold. 

The  reign  of  James  Second  saw  Monmouth  arise 
And  Jeffreys  go  forth  on  the  Bloody  Assize. 
The  bishops  were  freed  and  the  king  ran  away 
When  the  army  of  William  arrived  at  Tor  Bay. 

Next  William  of  Orange  and  Mary  his  wife, 

Who  all  through  their  reign  were  acquainted  with  strife. 

The  English  again  were  saved  by  their  fleet, 

And  the  "old  lady"  settled  in  Threadneedle  Street. 

And  now  we  have  come  to  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne 
Who  was  under  the  sway  of  the  Marlborough  clan. 
While  the  great  Duke  was  winning  his  battles  abroad 
St.  George  and  St.  Andrew  were  sheathing  the  sword. 

And  then  out  of  Hanover  came  the  four  Georges, 
Or  rather,  two  Georges,  the  other  two  Porgies. 
George  First  was  as  thick  as  the  chair  that  he  sat  in 
And  talked  with  Lord  Walpole  in  very  bad  Latin. 

There  was  fighting  enough  in  the  following  reign, 
On  land  and  on  sea,  with  France  and  with  Spain. 
All  Scotland  blazed  up  in  the  year  '45, 
And  India  was  saved  by  the  genius  of  Clive. 

Then  King  George  the  Third  laid  a  tax  upon  tea 
And  lost  his  best  colonies  over  the  sea. 
All  Paris  was  drenched  with  the  best  blood  of  France, 
And  Bonaparte's  guns  interrupted  a  dance. 

Let  us  pass  the  next  George  as  fast  as  we  can, 
For  his  was  a  case  where  clothes  made  the  man. 
There  was  little  to  praise  in  his  dissolute  life; 
He  was  always  in  debt  and  ill-treated  his  wife. 

[  89  ] 


King  William  the  Fourth  was  a  sailor  by  trade. 
He  was  one  of  the  kings  who  are  not  born  but  made. 
The  country  was  swept  by  a  wave  of  reform 
And  the  king  and  his  cabinet  bowed  to  the  storm. 

And  now  comes  Victoria,  empress  and  queen, 

True  wife,  loving  mother,  august  and  serene. 

In  all  Seven  Seas  was  her  banner  unfurled, 

And  the  tramp  of  her  armies  was  heard  round  the  world. 

King  Edward  the  Seventh  was  trained  as  a  youth 
To  be  kind  to  his  subjects  and  practice  the  truth. 
He  was  brimful  of  tact,  pleasure-loving  and  wise, 
And  wherever  he  went  he  was  cheered  to  the  skies. 

And  now  we  have  come  to  the  end  of  the  play; 
The  curtain  is  ready,  pray  what  shall  we  say? 
Why,  the  National  Anthem,  let  every  one  sing, 
"Here's  to  King  George  the  Fifth— and  God  Save  the  King!" 


[90  ] 


THE  PRESIDENTS 

First,  Washington,  brave,  patriotic  and  wise. 

In  vision  he  saw  a  great  nation  arise. 

Three  states  joined  the  union;  France  sent  us  Genet, 

And  a  treaty  with  England  was  made  by  John  Jay. 

John  Adams  was  next;  there  was  fighting  at  sea 
And  excitement  enough  over  "X,  Y  and  Z." 
Mud-throwing  was  strictly  forbidden  by  law 
And  two  of  the  states  were  inclined  to  withdraw. 

Third,  Jefferson,  Democrat,  simple  and  plain, 
Who  purchased  from  France  a  most  lordly  domain. 
The  pirates  were  humbled,  embargoes  were  laid 
And  the  first  trial  trip  of  the  Clermont  was  made. 

James  Madison  quitted  his  dinner  and  fled 
When  the  city  was  captured  by  soldiers  in  red. 
The  brave  Constitution  acquired  a  new  name 
And  Perry  and  Jackson  won  battles  and  fame. 

Monroe  was  a  soldier,  and  Lafayette  came 
To  visit  the  country  that  still  loved  his  name. 
A  compromise  measure  was  offered  by  Clay 
And  the  President  warned  foreign  nations  away. 

Next  John  Quincy  Adams  of  Puritan  stock, 
A  notable  chip  of  a  notable  block. 
The  Erie  Canal  made  its  way  o'er  the  hills 
And  a  steam  wagon  traveled  to  Ellicott's  Mills. 

And  then  Andrew  Jackson  who  didn't  propose 
To  give  all  the  plums  to  political  foes. 
In  the  wilderness  Garrison  uttered  his  cry, 
While  Webster  was  making  his  famous  "Reply." 

Next  Martin  Van  Buren  who  had  a  shrewd  head; 
A  "little  Magician,"  his  enemies  said. 
The  stream  of  finances  dried  up  at  the  font, 
And  an  angel  appeared  to  a  man  of  Vermont. 

[  91  ] 


Then  Harrison,  president  just  for  a  span, 

And  Tyler  who  finished  the  work  he  began. 

A  sister  republic  for  membership  sought, 

And  a  message  was  sent,  saying  "What  hath  God  wrought." 

When  Polk  took  the  reins  there  were  clouds  in  the  sky, 
And  "Fifty-four  forty  or  fight"  was  the  cry. 
We  picked  on  a  country  one  tenth  of  our  size, 
And  thousands  took  part  in  a  race  for  a  prize. 

Then  Zachary  Taylor,  too  soon  in  his  grave, 
And  Fillmore  denounced  by  the  friends  of  the  slave. 
A  railroad  was  opened  which  ran  but  one  way, 
And  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  made  talk  for  the  day. 

Then  down  from  New  Hampshire  came  President  Pierce. 
The  struggle  for  Kansas  was  bloody  and  fierce. 
John  Brown  and  his  fellows  prepared  for  their  raid, 
And  the  ports  of  Japan  were  opened  for  trade. 

Buchanan  was  next  and  the  case  of  Dred  Scott. 
Had  the  negro  a  right  to  his  freedom  or  not? 
The  Palmetto  State  resolved  to  secede, 
And  six  of  her  sisters  soon  followed  her  lead. 

Then  Abraham  Lincoln,  heroic  of  mold 
Who  guided  the  nation  through  perils  untold. 
With  a  stroke  of  his  pen  he  delivered  the  slave 
And  found  the  reward  of  great  souls — in  the  grave. 

Andrew  Johnson  was  next,  self-taught  and  self-made. 
The  hosts  of  the  North  had  a  mighty  parade. 
While  the  carpetbag  felons  were  rocking  the  boat, 
The  fate  of  the  president  hung  on  one  vote. 

Ulysses  S.  Grant  was  a  soldier  whose  name 
Was  sounded  abroad  by  the  trumpet  of  fame. 
By  twin  lines  of  steel  the  country  was  spanned, 
And  the  demon  of  fire  stalked  abroad  in  the  land. 

[  92  ] 


Then  Rutherford  Hayes  and  I  haste  to  declare 
That  he  gained  his  election  by  less  than  a  hair. 
The  troops  were  withdrawn  from  the  turbulent  South, 
And  the  great  Mississippi  cleared  out  its  own  mouth. 

Then  Garfield,  the  scholar  and  soldier  whose  fate 
Aroused  the  reformers  to  action  —  too  late. 
And  Arthur,  urbane,  discreet,  debonair, 
Who  filled  with  distinction  the  president's  chair. 

And  now  after  twenty-five  very  lean  years, 
The  Democrats  triumph  and  Cleveland  appears. 
In  Haymarket  Square  the  red  flag  is  unfurled 
While  the  Statue  of  Liberty  beams  on  the  world. 

Then  Harrison,  heir  of  an  honorable  name, 
Who  trod  in  his  grandfather's  footsteps  to  fame. 
Six  states  were  admitted,  new  battleships  made 
And  a  tariff  adopted  to  stimulate  trade. 

Then  Cleveland  returns  for  another  four  years, 
And  Coxey's  Industrial  Army  appears. 
A  great  Fair  is  opened;  a  tariff  bill  passed, 
And  the  Bering  Sea  question  is  settled  at  last. 

Then  William  McKinley,  the  loss  of  the  Maine, 
And  the  war  to  deliver  the  Cubans  from  Spain. 
The  little  brown  brother  came  under  our  rule, 
And  the  head-hunter's  child  began  going  to  school. 

Next  Theodore  Roosevelt,  redoubtable  "Teddy," 
In  peace  or  in  war  his  motto  was  "Ready." 
A  city  was  shaken;  a  state  flag  unfurled, 
And  a  mighty  armada  was  sent  round  the  world. 

When  President  Roosevelt  retired  from  the  craft 
He  handed  the  tiller  to  William  H.  Taft. 
Two  states  were  admitted,  which  finished  the  roll, 
And  Peary  battled  his  way  to  the  Pole. 

[  93  ] 


Then  Wilson  the  statesman  and  scholar  profound 
With  head  in  the  clouds  but  with  feet  on  the  ground. 
The  whole  world  resounded  with  war's  grim  alarms, 
America  waited — and  then  sprang  to  arms. 

Then  Harding  and  Coolidge,  both  raised  on  the  farm. 
The  one  said  "Retrench"  and  the  other  "Disarm." 
The  nations  assembled  and  signed  a  decree; 
"We'll  limit  our  navies  to  five,  five  and  three ! " 

Here  endeth  the  lesson;  now  who'll  play  the  seer, 
And  tell  us  the  name  of  the  next  to  appear? 
Republican,  Democrat,  which  shall  it  be? 
Perhaps  you  can  guess,  it  is  hidden  from  me! 


ENGLISH  BULLETIN 

Laborare  est  orare 

Bring  pads  and  pencils  to  the  class, 
There's  written  work  in  sight, 

It's  going  to  be  a  strenuous  week, 
So  study  day  and  night. 

Lesson  25.     Review  Macbeth,  the  whole  darned  play, 
The  King,  the  ghost,  the  witches, 
Consider  carefully  each  line 
And  memorize  the  speeches. 

Lesson  26.     The  poems  of  Milton  are  nice 

We'll  run  through  'em  all  in  a  trice, 
So  study  intensive 
The  subject's  extensive, 
An  hour  on  each  poem  will  suffice. 

Lesson  27.     Get  to  work, 
Study  Burke. 

[  94  1 


THREE   GAMES 


I.  The  finals  of  the  big  tennis  tournament  were  on.     The 
match  had  been  hotly  contested  and  the  spectators  were  at  a  high 
pitch  of  excitement,  as  the  home  player  who  was  serving  was 
within  two  points  of  the  set  and  match.    He  poised  himself  and 
delivered  the  ball.    His  opponent  sent  it  whizzing  back  down  the 
side  line  and  ran  up  to  the  net.    A  high  lob  came  back  and  the 
crowd  groaned,  for  the  visitor  had  showed  himself  an  adept  at 
smashing.    Something  had  to  be  done  and  as  the  ball  descended, 
the  spectators  rose  to  their  feet  as  one  man,  with  a  loud,  blood- 
curdling shriek.     The  unfortunate  player  faltered  and  the  ball 
struck  full  on  the  top  of  his  head  while  the  stand  rocked  with 
laughter.     The  victim  struggled  to  regain  his  composure,  but  in 
vain.    The  match  was  soon  over  and  he  had  lost.    As  the  happy 
crowd  left  the  grounds,  one  exuberant  youth  remarked  to  his 
neighbor:  "Well,  I  guess  we  were  back  of  the  old  man  that  tune." 

II.  The  two  players  stepped  up  to  the  eighteenth  tee  and  pre- 
pared to  drive.    The  lead  had  alternated  all  through  the  match, 
and  now  the  players  were  all  even.     The  home  player  had  the 
honor,  and  the  spectators  burst  into  hearty  applause  as  he  sent  the 
ball  straight  down  the  course,  almost  to  the  bunker  which  guarded 
the  green.    His  opponent  had  proved  himself  no  mean  antagonist, 
but  the  strain  had  been  terrific  and  he  showed  signs  of  nervous- 
ness as  he  addressed  the  ball.     Just  as  he  drew  back  his  club,  a 
whistle  sounded,  and  the  entire  crowd  sat  down  hard  upon  the 
ground  and  waved  their  arms  wildly  in  the  air.    The  effect  was 
electrical.    The  ball  described  a  wide  curve  and  landed  in  a  pile 
of  stones,  in  an  unplayable  lie,  and  after  one  look,  the  visitor 
gracefully  conceded  the  hole  and  match  to  his  opponent.     As 
the  crowd  gathered  in  front  of  the  club  house,  and  the  winner 
received  the  well-earned  prize,  he  said,  with  evident  emotion:  "I 
shouldn't  have  won  if  I  hadn't  felt  that  you  fellows  were  back 
of  me." 

III.  The  ninth  inning  had  come  and  the  visitors  were  two 
runs  ahead.    The  game  had  been  close  and  exciting,  the  rivalry 
was  intense,  and  the  feeling  was  general  that  the  time  for  action 
had  come.    The  visitors  were  retired  without  scoring  and  as  the 
home  players  trotted  in  from  the  field  the  crowd  surged  down 
from  the  grandstand,  prepared  for  action,  dancing  up  and  down 

[  95  ] 


<$>  --  $> 

with  excitement.  As  the  pitcher  prepared  to  deliver  the  ball,  a 
storm  of  cheers  burst  forth,  while  shrill  whistles  split  the  air. 
The  pitcher  "broke"  and  seeing  this,  the  spectators  redoubled 
their  efforts  and  the  batter  drew  a  base  on  balls,  and  ran  to  first 
amid  cries  of  "That's  the  old  eye!"  A  hit,  a  base  on  balls,  a 
muffed  fly,  and  another  hit  speedily  netted  three  runs  and  the 
game  was  won. 

"Snappy  work,  that,"  said  one  happy  boy  to  another,  as 
they  adjourned  for  refreshments.  "I  shan't  be  able  to  speak  a 
loud  word  for  a  week." 

"Neither  shall  I,"  said  his  companion,  "but  it's  worth  it. 
How  funny  that  pitcher  looked." 

*a*         fel»         tj£ 

DINING  ROOM  ECHOES 


Visiting  Parent  —  What  a  lovely  room! 

The  Doctor  —  and  give  us  grateful  and  faithful  hearts. 

V.  P.  —  We  were  motoring  and  couldn't  resist  the  tempta- 
tion — 

The  buzzer  sounds. 

The  Doctor  —  All  boys  who  cannot  sing  will  meet  Mr.  Beebe 
almost  anywhere  after  lunch.  Please  dress  warmly.  Bring 
pencils. 

V.  P.  —  My  boy  had  a  lovely  voice  until  his  tonsils  — 

The  buzzer  sounds. 

The  Doctor  —  In  recognition  of  the  fine  work  of  the  Gun 
Team,  there  will  be  no  Chapel  tonight. 

A  Voice  —  Big  Siren  ! 

V.  P.  —  My  boy  just  loves  chapel.     He  sits  behind  a  pillar. 

Waitress  —  There  are  no  more  bread. 

V.  P.—  John  had  four  B's. 

Unknown  Boy  (aside)  —  That's  nothing.  I  had  the  hives 
once. 

V.  P.  —  How  fast  your  boys  eat. 

The  Doctor  —  What  the  Health  Committee— 

V.  P.  —  That  reminds  me  — 

The  Doctor  —  Coffee  will  be  served  in  the  small  dining  room. 

All  go  out 

[  96  ] 


A  FABLE 


Many  years  ago,  in  sunny  Spain,  flourished  a  genial  organ- 
ization called  the  Spanish  Inquisition.  The  members  of  this 
body  firmly  believed  that  all  heretics  were  lost,  as  far  as  future 
happiness  was  concerned,  and  therefore  that  it  was  not  only 
their  privilege  but  their  stern  duty  to  show  said  heretics  the  error 
of  their  ways  and  to  persuade  them  to  depart  therefrom.  In  the 
performance  of  this  duty  the  inquisitors  did  not  hesitate  to  use 
the  most  refined  and  cruel  tortures. 

Some  of  the  victims  were  burned  to  death  in  the  public 
square,  others  were  stretched  upon  the  rack,  while  still  others 
suffered  the  water  torture  or  felt  the  deadly  embrace  of  the  Iron 
Maiden.  For  the  most  hardened  heretics  was  reserved  a  form 
of  torture  so  horrible  that  I  hesitate  to  describe  it. 

An  officer  of  the  Inquisition  was  sent  forth  with  orders  to 
find  among  the  passersby  a  man  with  the  following  characteris- 
tics: 

1.  A  fishy  eye. 

2.  A  feeble  voice. 

3.  A  hesitating  speech. 

4.  A  general  air  of  procrastination. 

The  search  was  always  brief  and  when  the  desired  person  was 
found,  he  was  blindfolded  and  taken  to  the  nearest  bookstore. 
Here  he  was  halted  before  a  shelf  and  ordered  to  stretch  forth 
his  arm  until  he  touched  a  book.  The  volume  thus  chosen  was 
bought  and  the  sinister  procession  returned  to  the  torture 
chamber.  The  bandage  was  then  removed  from  the  eyes  of  the 
ichthyoptic  person  and  he  was  ordered  to  read  aloud  to  the  un- 
fortunate victim  of  the  Inquisition. 

The  result  may  readily  be  imagined.  After  an  hour  the 
most  hardened  sinner  begged  for  the  thumb-screw  and  the  rack. 
After  two  hours,  he  either  went  mad  or  recanted  and  offered  to 
believe  anything,  no  matter  how  incredible.  In  all  the  history  of 
the  Inquisition,  but  one  man  lasted  beyond  the  second  hour. 

With  a  pleased  smile  on  his  face  this  person  listened  for 
more  than  three  hours  while  a  man  who  both  stuttered  and  lisped 
read  chapter  after  chapter  of  an  incredibly  stupid  book.  Finally 
the  heretic  sank  into  a  gentle  slumber.  The  investigation  which 

[  97  ] 


followed  showed  that  he  was  less  than  half-witted  and  stone  deaf 
and  that  before  he  lost  his  hearing  he  had,  every  night  of  his  life, 
listened  to  one  bedtime  story  and  on  gala  nights  to  two. 

Inquisitors  and  their  victims  have  long  since  gone  to  their 
respective  rewards  but  the  fishy-eyed  individual  is  still  abroad  in 
the  land  and  "the  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them." 


RULES  OF  AUCTION 


DON'T  WORK 

1.  Count  your  cards.    If  you  have  thirteen  bid  four  hearts. 

2.  When  in  doubt,  trump,  and  trump  to  kill. 

3.  When  you  have  no  trumps,  lead  them  freely,  thereby  con- 
fusing your  opponents. 

4.  Never  bid  more  than  four  no  trumps,  unless  you  have  at 
least  one  nine-spot,  four  times  guarded. 

5.  A  trump  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  on  the  floor. 

6.  If  you  hold  ace,  king,  queen,  lead  the  queen.     Trump  with 
the  highest  trump  in  the  dummy  and  lead  the  king.    Trump 
again  and  continue  as  in  multiplication. 

7.  Even  if  your  cards  disagree  with  you,  do  not  throw  up  the 
hand. 

8.  Kind  hearts  are  more  than  diamonds,  and  simple  spades 
than  Norman  clubs. 

9.  The  last  trump  should  be  seen,  not  heard. 
10.     A  game  a  day  keeps  the  doctor  away. 

[  98  ] 


LIZZIE 


(Long  after  Wordsworth) 

The  sun  was  shining  o'er  the  mill 
As  down  the  road  I  went, 

The  cattle  on  the  grassy  hill 
Were  grazing  on  the  brent; 

The  smoke  was  rising  from  the  byre, 

The  birds  sang  lustily, 
And  by  the  cheery  kitchen  fire 

The  good  wife  brewed  the  tea. 

The  world  was  full  of  sweet  content, 
'Twas  all  so  calm  and  still, 

And  I  could  even  catch  the  scent 
Of  rue  and  daffodil. 

I  sat  me  down  beside  the  burn, 

My  thoughts  were  with  the  dead, 

When  suddenly  around  the  turn, 
A  little  maiden  sped. 

Her  eyes  were  like  a  limpid  pool, 
Her  lips  like  cherries  twain, 

Her  feet  were  bare,  and  in  her  hair, 
A  sprig  of  wild  purslain. 

"Come  hither,  child,"  I  kindly  said, 
"And  tell  me  who  you  are." 

"I'm  Lizzie,  sir,  and  father's  dead, 
And  mother's  over  there." 

"Is  over  where,  my  little  maid, 

With  purslain  in  your  hair?" 

Again  she  said,  "Why,  father's  dead, 
And  mother's  over  there." 

In  vain  I  sought,  her  troubled  eyes 
Were  homes  of  silent  prayer, 

But  all  she  said  was:  "Father's  dead 
And  mother's  over  there." 

[  99  ] 


MY  PORCH 


(After  Longfellow) 

My  porch  is  shady  and  cool, 
With  shrubs  and  flowering  vines, 
And  all  day  long  I  sit  and  hear 
The  sound  of  wind  in  the  pines. 

The  noise  of  hurrying  feet 
Comes  faintly  to  my  ear, 
And  the  hum  of  the  busy  street 
Is  a  pleasant  sound  to  hear. 

In  the  morning  the  steps  are  quick, 
For  there's  work  which  must  be  done, 
But  the  steady  beat  of  tired  feet 
Sets  in  with  the  setting  sun. 


[100] 


COOKIE 

iff 

(After  Riley) 

Our  cook  is  fat  and  jolly 
And  loves  us  little  folks, 
She  makes  the  best  loblolly 
And  pickled  artichokes. 

My  father  sez  he'd  ruther 
Eat  Cookie's  lemon  pie, 
Than  go  to  church  with  mother 
And  I  say,  "So  would  I." 

But  mother  sez,  "Now  Benny, 
It's  time  for  Sunday  School 
So  run  and  get  your  penny 
And  harness  up  the  mule." 

And  Cookie  looked  provokin' 
And  kinder  like  a  fool, 
But  the  lemon  pie  was  smokin' 
When  we  cum  from  Sunday  School. 


[1011 


MY  HUSBAND 


Percy  and  I  have  been  married  almost  fifteen  years.  I 
could  talk  all  day  about  him  but  I  am  told  that  this  paper  must  be 
brief  and  so  I  will  mention  just  a  few  of  his  salient  characteristics. 

In  the  first  place,  Percy  is  reliable.  In  all  of  our  married 
life  he  has  never  failed  to  kiss  me  at  least  twice  a  day.  His 
kisses  are  satisfactory,  too.  Sometimes  I  feel  that  he  must  have 
had  a  good  deal  of  practice  before  we  were  married,  but  I  try  to 
dismiss  the  thought  as  disloyal  to  him.  Anyhow,  what  if  he  did? 

Sometime  somebody  ought  to  write  a  paper  on  kissing  as  one 
of  the  Fine  Arts.  There  are  several  styles  you  know.  In  one, 
the  contestants,  as  if  impelled  by  an  unseen  hand,  violently  plunge 
into  each  other's  arms  and  sway  to  and  fro,  the  while  uttering 
weird  sounds,  like  the  moans  of  an  animal  in  pain.  This  style 
may  be  called  "the  clinch." 

Another  method  reminds  one  of  a  domestic  fowl  eating 
grain.  Just  a  series  of  pecks,  sometimes  hitting  the  mark,  some- 
times not.  Percy  avoids  these  extremes.  Often  he  quotes  the 
words  of  the  classic  poet,  "In  medio  tutissimus  osculabis." 

In  the  second  place,  Percy  is  sincere.  When  he  is  angry, 
which  is  very  seldom,  he  never  begins  a  sentence  with  "Well, 
dearie,  you  know  very  well."  I  have  observed  that  those  words 
usually  introduce  a  remark  which  is  particularly  nasty.  Percy 
is  not  a  profane  man,  and  when  he  bursts  forth  with  "Damn  it" 
I  know  what  is  coming  and  have  time  to  prepare.  With  him 
*'my  dear"  does  not  mean  "you  poor  fish"  as  it  does  with  so  many 
husbands. 

Percy  is  the  most  reasonable  man  I  know.  He  knows  what 
he  wants,  but  he  is  always  ready  to  compromise.  When  we  were 
talking  about  buying  a  car  Percy  favored  a  Buick.  I  wanted  a 
Studebaker  which,  in  my  opinion,  is  superior  to  the  Buick  in  the 
things  which  really  count,  such  as  upholstery,  trunk-rack  and 
paint.  We  talked  the  matter  over  pretty  thoroughly  and  then  I 
waited.  Finally  we  compromised  on  a  Studebaker.  I  knew  we 
should  all  the  time.  After  all,  diplomacy  accomplishes  wonders, 
doesn't  it?  I  drive  the  car  and  I  don't  mind  saying  that  I'm  a 
better  driver  than  Percy.  Only,  I'm  unlucky,  if  you  know  what 
I  mean.  I  always  run  across  so  many  people  who  pay  no  atten- 

[102] 


tion  to  the  traffic  regulations.  Why,  just  the  other  day  I  was 
driving  in  traffic  when  the  car  in  front  of  me  stopped.  I  pressed 
down  the  footbrake,  but  for  some  reason  the  car  shot  ahead  and 
bumped  into  the  other  car.  The  driver  came  back  and  I  must 
say  that  he  was  very  rude.  He  said  that  I  must  have  stepped  on 
the  gas.  The  idea!  I  told  him  that  I  had  been  driving  a  car 
a  long  time  and  that  I  knew  as  much  about  gas  as  anyone  in  the 
world.  He  replied:  "More,  Madam,"  whatever  that  might  mean. 

When  I  told  Percy  about  it,  he  was  very  sweet.  He  simply 
said:  "There's  one  born  every  minute."  He  can  sum  up  a  whole 
situation  in  a  word  or  two,  just  like  that. 

Percy  never  interrupts  when  I  am  telling  a  story.  You 
know  how  men  are.  Why,  some  wives  of  my  acquaintance  never 
finish  a  story  when  their  husbands  are  about,  unless  they  are 
playing  bridge.  Then  the  game  distracts  the  attention  of  three 
players  and  the  dummy  has  a  chance.  Percy  has  no  patience  with 
husbands  who  treat  their  wives  in  this  way.  He  calls  them  the 
"chestnut  blight."  Clever,  I  call  it. 

Percy  is  as  nearly  perfect  as  any  man  I  ever  knew  but  he  has 
certain  failings  characteristic  of  the  sex.  In  the  first  place,  he 
is  utterly  unable  to  find  anything.  I  am  positive  that  if  Pha- 
raoh's daughter  had  asked  her  father  to  rescue  little  Moses,  he 
would  have  returned  empty-handed,  declaring  that  there  was  no 
basket,  no  Moses,  and  for  that  matter,  no  bulrushes.  Men  are 
like  that.  With  Percy  it  began  on  our  wedding  day.  He  couldn't 
find  the  ring.  Luckily  the  best  man  was  a  smoker  and  I  was  wed- 
ded with  a  cigar  band.  I  found  the  ring  while  we  were  marching 
down  the  aisle.  Percy  had  put  it  on  his  own  finger  for  safe 
keeping. 

When  Percy  is  really  ill,  he  is  too  angelic  for  words;  but 
when  he  has  stomach  ache,  which  he  calls  indigestion,  he  is  cross 
and  unreasonable.  All  men  are.  There  are  two  things  which 
every  woman  knows.  One  is,  that  no  man  can  bear  pain  and  the 
other  is  that  every  man  over  thirty  likes  to  be  babied.  In  these 
respects  Percy  is  just  like  other  men.  I'm  glad  that  he  is.  I 
don't  want  him  to  be  too  perfect.  You  know,  angels  do  not  marry. 


[103] 


RUMORS 

tfft 

Have  you  heard  the  dreadful  rumors  about  the  dear  old  Hill? 
They  are  very,  very  serious  and  make  me  almost  ill, 
For  though  I  seldom  visit  it  I  love  the  old  place  still. 
It's  disconcerting. 

I  heard  this  from  a  gentleman  uncertain  on  his  legs, 
Whose  grandfather  once  knew  a  man  who  looked  like  Mr.  Meigs; 
And  so,  you  see,  I  know  my  news  is  just  as  sure  as  eggs. 
And  that's  what's  hurting. 

They  say  that  Mr.  Sheppard  has  started  in  to  dance; 
He  practices  the  Charleston  ev'ry  time  he  gets  a  chance; 
He  says  he'll  do  it  even  if  he  ruins  his  Sunday  pants. 
Oh!  ain't  it  shocking? 

And  there's  another  rumor,  the  worst  that  I  have  heard, 
It's  all  about  the  doings  of  our  friend  the  Bickel  bird, 
He's  engaged  to  two  young  flappers  and  is  visiting  the  third 
In  Conshohocken ! 

They  say  that  Dr.  Warnock  has  hardening  of  the  spleen, 
That  dear  old  Henry  Colbath  has  water  on  the  bean, 
That  half  the  student  body  ran  away  last  Hallowe'en, 
Now  can  you  beat  it? 

They  say  that  Dr.  Edwards  has  forgotten  how  to  smile, 
You  really  can't  imagine  how  much  it  cramps  his  style, 
He  used  to  be  so  jovial — they  fear  it  is  his  bile. 
Please  don't  repeat  it. 

They  say  that  Mr.  H.  Bement  has  lost  his  savoir  faire, 
One  day  he  seems  to  have  it  and  the  next  it  isn't  there, 
The  doctors  all  ascribe  it  to  the  way  he  parts  his  hair, 
Like  Kitty  Cheatem. 

I'm  told  the  food  is  simply  a  succession  of  poor  jokes, 
At  every  meal  you  hear  a  squeal  and  some  poor  fellow  chokes, 
The  meat  is  made  of  rubber  and  the  pastry  is  a  hoax, 
Pigs  wouldn't  eat  'em! 

[104] 


My  eyes  are  filled  with  briny  tears  when  I  think  of  dear  old  "Pop," 
The  boys  have  got  him  on  the  run  and  don't  know  where  to  stop, 
One  night  they  got  so  bellicose  he  had  to  call  a  cop, 
It's  quite  pathetic. 

They  say  that  more  than  half  the  School  is  down  with  chicken  pox, 
The  other  half  has  measles,  the  ship  is  on  the  rocks, 
And  after  ev'ry  meal  the  boys  must  take  an  anti-tox 
And  an  emetic. 

When  Matthew  Meigs  was  running  things,  the  boys  were  all  po- 
lite, 

They  never  used  bad  language  nor  wandered  round  at  night, 
They  loved  their  teachers  dearly,  it  was  a  pretty  sight. 
Quite  elevating! 

But  that  was  many  years  ago  in  ante-bellum  days, 
Now  life  has  speeded  up,  you  know,  in  very  many  ways, 
But  come  up  soon  and  visit  us,  you'll  find  some  things  to  praise, 
I'm  after  stating. 


[105] 


A  SONG  OF  JOYS 

Ol 

Oh!  the  joy  of  being  a  Sixth  Former! 

The  pleasure  of  lying  in  bed  until  7:13, 

The  joy  of  going  to  breakfast  without  washing  the  face 

Or  combing  the  hair. 

The  delight  of  dressing  in  the  open  air; 

The  cold  eye  of  the  Master 

As  he  looks  at  the  shirt,  unbuttoned; 

The  joy  of  going  unshorn 

With  full  beard  or  half-full  or  just  fuzz. 

Oh!  the  joy  of  the  Morning! 

Oh!  the  joy  of  the  Forenoon! 

The  delight  of  studying  in  a  tidy  room 

With  everything  on  the  floor  in  easy  reach. 

Books,  my  books,  your  books,  everybody's  books, 

Socks,  my  socks,  your  socks,  odd  socks, 

Crumbs,  more  crumbs,  and  shoes, 

And  recitations! 

The  joy  of  chewing  gum  until  one  is  asked  to  throw  it  out  of 

the  window 

To  be  picked  up  by  the  shoe  of  the  unwary, 
And  yawning  with  mouth  wide  open, 
And  borrowing  paper 

And  talking  out  loud  without  saying  anything. 
Oh!  the  joys  of  the  Forenoon! 

Oh!  the  joys  of  the  Afternoon! 

Of  going  to  the  movies, 

Good  movies,  bad  movies,  any  old  movies 

Anything  to  pass  the  time  away 

And  keep  from  thinking. 

Oh!  the  joy  of  baseball 

And  tennis  and  golf  and  bicycling. 

And  the  Jigger!    Oh!  joy, 

The  delight  of  eating  a  lot  of  sweet  stuff 

With  marshmallows  and  nuts  n'everything, 

All  sloshy  and  gooey 

And  feeling  like  a  stuffed  guinea  pig. 

Oh!  the  joy  of  the  Afternoon! 

[106] 


Oh!  the  joy  of  the  Evening! 

With  nothing  to  do  but  study 

And  why  do  that? 

And  bed  at  11, 

Or,  with  special  permission 

At  11.30  or  12, 

Or  if  one  is  one  of  the  News 

Or  Record  or  Dial  or  Snooze 

At  1.30  or  2  or  not  at  all. 

Oh!  the  joy  of  the  Evening! 

Oh!  the  joy  of  the  Pipe  Club! 

The  cosiness  of  it; 

The  clear,  cool  air 

The  clean  floor 

And  the  good  old  bicker 

About  life  and  art 

And  why  we  can't  sleep  over  on  Monday  mornings; 

And  what  shall  we  do  when  we  get  to  college 

Or  rather,  if  we  get  into  college, 

If  you  know  what  I  mean. 

And  who  makes  the  longest  prayer, 

For  we  all  know  who  makes  the  shortest. 

Oh!  the  joys  of  the  Bicker! 

Oh!  the  joys  of  being  a  Sixth  Former! 

The  good  fellowship 

The  arm  around  the  shoulder, 

The  quiet  talk  with  those  we  love, 

The  pride  of  achievement 

And  loyalty  and  strong  leadership, 

And  the  feeling  that  the  Good  Old  Hill 

Is  better  because  we  have  been  here 

And  will  miss  us  when  we  go, 

And  that  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Edwards 

Will  be  waiting 

With  smiling  faces  and  hands  outstretched 

To  welcome  us  home 

Whether  we  come  crowned  with  olive 

Or  just  as  one  who  ran  his  best 

And  failed. 

Oh!  such  are  the  real  joys  of  being  a  Sixth  Former! 

[107] 


CROSS  WORD  PUZZLES 

•ft 

For  a  year  or  more  I  have  been  an  ardent  devotee  of  cross 
word  puzzles.  Puzzles  of  any  sort  always  have  had  a  sort  of  fas- 
cination for  me,  which  accounts,  I  suppose,  for  my  fondness  for 
Algebra  and  for  Browning's  poetry.  Many  happy  hours  have  I 
spent  before  a  blazing  fire,  trying  to  find  out  how  long  it  would 
take  A  to  do  a  piece  of  work  if  B  can  do  it  in  J  hours,  and  C  in  2M 
hours  over  3. 

Of  course,  in  real  life,  one  would  call  up  A  and  ask  him 
how  long  it  would  take,  incidentally  inquiring  after  Mrs.  A.  and 
getting  his  candid  opinion  of  his  rival  C;  but  Algebra  and  life 
have  little  in  common  and  there  is  solid  satisfaction  in  working 
out  the  problem  unaided  and  learning  that  A  can  turn  the  trick 
in  PD  hours  over  Q. 

Then  there  is  Browning's  poetry  which  is,  as  everyone 
knows,  full  of  unsolved  conundrums,  with  no  answer  book.  Take, 
for  instance,  those  cryptic  words: 

The  chaps  of  earth's  dead  hopes 
Were  tardy  to  collapse. 

Some  think  that  Browning  had  reference  to  umbrellas;  others,  to 
parachutes.  All  are  wrong.  As  the  rhyme  shows,  what  Brown- 
ing really  wrote  was 

The  hopes  of  earth's  dead  chaps 
Were  tardy  to  collapse. 

It's  the  story  of  Pandora's  box  over  again.  Poor  chaps;  they 
clung  to  hope  when  all  else  was  gone.  Viewed  in  this  light,  the 
passage  is  clear  enough,  but  oh,  how  sad!  Browning  was  no 
Pollyanna. 

Again,  those  two  problems  in  Popularity: 

"Who  fished  the  murex  up? 
What  porridge  had  John  Keats?" 

In  regard  to  the  former,  several  further  inquiries  suggest  them- 
selves. Who  claimed  the  credit?  What  bait  did  he  use?  How 
much  did  the  murex  weigh?  How  much  did  he  say  it  weighed? 
How  long  did  it  take  him  to  land  it?  What  is  a  murex  anyhow? 

[108] 


John  Keats  was  not  a  Scot  and  therefore,  in  all  probability, 
he  despised  oatmeal.  Fortunately  for  him,  in  his  day,  shredded 
wheat  had  not  been  invented.  What  porridge  then  could  he 
have?  Pease  porridge  hot,  and  there  you  are. 

And  so,  let  us  return  to  the  cross  words.  These  puzzles 
afford  not  only  pleasure,  but  profit  as  well,  for  they  recall  to  the 
mind  many  words,  once  familiar,  now  almost  forgotten.  It  is 
like  the  reunion  of  a  Finnish  family  after  years  of  separation. 
What  a  delight  to  see  again  Aunt  Marta,  Uncle  Fusk,  Cousins 
Blurb,  and  Lunk,  and  little  Gabby.  In  like  manner,  these  puz- 
les  have  called  to  my  mind  many  classical  quotations,  favorites 
of  my  early  manhood,  which  I  have  loved  long  since  but  lost 
the  while. 

Take,  for  example,  the  word  "tig"  which  is,  as  you  all  know, 
a  convivial  cup  or  wassail  bowl.  It  had  slipped  clear  down  to 
the  bottom  of  my  subterranean  self,  but  when  I  saw  it  again,  a 
perfect  flood  of  memories  swept  over  me.  I  recalled  at  once  two 
quotations  which  I  learned  at  school  years  ago.  The  first  was 
that  passage  in  Pericles,  Prince  of  Tyre,  where  Simonides  says: 

"What  ho,  let  music  sound 
And  pass  the  tig  around." 

The  second  was  Tom  Moore's  rollicking  verse: 

"Bring  in  the  tig 
Strike  up  a  jig 
And  call  the  neighbors  in. 
At  twenty- one 
The  world  is  young 
And  soberness  is  sin." 

Then  I  had  almost  forgotten  the  "ai"  or  three-toed  sloth.  The 
more  shame  to  me,  for  when  I  was  a  boy  we  had  a  pet  ai  which 
my  sailor  uncle  brought  home  from  Far  Rockaway  in  the  Spanish 
Main.  It  was  a  gentle  little  creature  and  used  by  the  hour  to 
hang  head  down  from  the  ceiling  of  our  living-room.  After 
a  while  it  would  go  to  sleep,  relax  its  hold  and  fall  with  a  thud 
to  the  floor  amidst  the  joyful  shrieks  of  the  children.  Our  north- 
ern climate  was  too  austere  for  it  and  it  lived  but  a  year. 

The  ai  too  has  been  celebrated  in  verse.  You  will  remem- 
ber the  passage  in  Troilus  and  Cressida  where  Ulysses  says: 

[109] 


"Perseverance,  dear  my  lord,  Keeps  honor  bright 
While  sloth—" 

and  Achilles  responds: 

"Sloth,  aye,  I  do  believe  it  for  they  passed  by 
Me,  as  misers  do  by  beggars." 

Another  interesting  and  suggestive  word  is  "shroop,"  a  dis- 
cordant sound.  No  sooner  is  the  word  seen  than  one  recalls  the 
exquisite  passage  in  Antony  and  Cleopatra  where  the  queen, 
hearing  a  noise  without,  inquires: 

"What  was  the  shroop?"     Whereto  Chairmian  replies: 

"Madam,  methinks  it  was  a  howlet." 
and  Cleopatra  flashes  back: 

"Howlet,  your  anile  ancestor! 
More  like  a  hiwi  was't 
Or  a  horned  gnu 
Driven  by  some  schelm 
Who  gathers  orts." 

So,  I  might  go  on  and  on;  but  time  would  fail  me  if  I  were 
to  speak  of  amil  and  anab,  of  tare  and  ouns,  of  the  nerilima  and 
the  blob.  To  the  unthinking  they  may  seem  but  words;  to  me 
they  are  the  very  floodgates  of  the  fountain  of  youth. 


[110] 


WHAT  Do  BOYS  KNOW 


(Reprinted  from  the  "Atlantic  Monthly"  through  the  courtesy  of  that 
publication.  ) 

"All  men  are  liars,"  said  the  Psalmist,  in  his  haste.  It  was 
a  rash  statement,  which,  doubtless,  he  had  cause  later  to  regret. 
Were  he  living  now,  and  a  teacher  of  youth,  he  might  well  be 
tempted  to  say  in  his  wrath,  "All  young  people  are  fools,"  and 
again  he  would  be  wrong,  at  least  so  far  as  boys  are  concerned. 
Girls  I  must  leave  to  those  who  know  them  better  than  I.  They 
look  intelligent;  but  appearances  are  deceitful,  and  their  conver- 
sation, while  picturesque,  is  not  always  reassuring. 

Once  there  was  a  girl  who,  through  all  the  courses  of  a  long 
dinner,  entertained  her  neighbor  with  sprightly  talk.  At  the  time 
he  thought  that  he  had  never  enjoyed  a  conversation  more;  but 
when  he  meditated  upon  it,  in  the  cold  night  watches,  he  realized 
that  he  had  done  all  the  talking,  her  share  being  confined  to  two 
words,  "rippin"  and  "rath-er."  The  rest  was  "charm."  That  is, 
however,  another  story. 

I  have  a  theory  that  girls  know  better  than  boys  how  to 
make  a  little  information,  as  well  as  a  limited  vocabulary,  go  a 
long  way.  It  is  a  theory  the  truth  of  which  it  is  difficult  for  me 
to  establish,  and  I  shall  not  attempt  to  do  so.  Boys,  on  the 
other  hand,  seem  at  times  to  glory  in  their  ignorance.  They  wear 
it  as  a  garment;  they  flaunt  it  in  one's  face.  "The  world  is  still 
deceived  with  ornament,"  but  not  by  them.  Knowledge  is  theirs, 
but  "knowledge  never  learned  of  schools,"  hidden  below  the  sur- 
face. This  makes  them  a  fascinating,  if  baffling,  subject  of  study, 
and  gives  point  to  the  query,  "What  do  boys  know?" 

For  some  years  it  has  been  part  of  my  job  as  master  in  a 
large  preparatory  school  for  boys,  to  make  out  each  year  two 
"information  tests,"  and  to  superintend  the  correction  of  the 
papers.  Each  test  contains  one  hundred  questions,  and  presup- 
poses on  the  part  of  the  pupil  a  bowing  acquaintance  with  the 
masterpieces  of  English  literature,  including  the  Bible,  some 
knowledge  of  the  political  doings  of  the  day  at  home  and  abroad, 
and  a  smattering  of  what  is  politely,  but  vaguely,  styled  "general 
information,"  which  comes  from  the  habit  of  keeping  open  the 
eyes  and  ears. 

[Ill] 


The  boys  who  take  the  tests  range  from  twelve  to  nineteen 
years  of  age  and  are,  for  the  most  part,  sons  of  wealthy  parents. 
They  have  enjoyed  all  the  advantages  that  money  can  buy.  Many 
have  traveled  widely.  Not  a  few  have  been  exposed  to  the  society 
of  refined  and  cultured  persons. 

The  tests  are  anticipated  with  an  interest  that  amounts  al- 
most to  enthusiasm.  There  are  book  prizes  for  the  winners,  and 
the  successful  ones  receive  from  their  fellows  plaudits  not  usual- 
ly given  in  this  day  and  generation  to  those  whose  wits  are 
nimbler  than  their  heels. 

After  reading  some  hundreds  of  these  "general  information" 
papers,  I  am  forced  to  conclude  that  the  average  boy's  ignorance 
of  literature,  especially  of  the  Bible,  is  profound,  not  to  say 
abysmal.  The  unplumbed  depth  of  the  abyss  may,  perhaps,  be 
assigned  to  the  youth  who  gave  as  his  version  of  the  third  com- 
mandment, "Thou  shall  not  commit  Deuteronomy!"  but  he  will 
not  lack  company.  The  question,  "Who  led  the  children  of 
Israel  into  the  Promised  Land?"  brought  out  an  amazing  array 
of  candidates  for  the  high  honor,  beginning  with  Noah,  embrac- 
ing all  the  prophets,  major  and  minor,  and  ending  with  "Moses, 
the  Baptist."  Answers  to  the  question,  "What  book  of  the  Old 
Testament  has  no  mention  of  God?"  ranged  impartially  from 
Genesis  to  Malachi,  with  a  strong  bias  toward  the  former,  in  spite 
of  its  opening  words,  "In  the  beginning  God  created  the  heaven 
and  the  earth." 

It  is  only  too  evident  that  in  many  modern  households 
family  worship  is  unknown.  No  longer  does  "the  priest-like 
father  read  the  sacred  page,"  while  "the  children  round  the  ingle 
form  a  circle  wide."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  one  would  have  to  look 
far  to  find  an  ingle  in  a  modern  apartment;  the  father,  quite  un- 
priestlike  in  garb  and  conversation,  is  on  the  links,  or  snuggling 
with  pipe  and  paper  in  his  easy  chair;  the  children  are  swinging 
wide  in  quite  another  sort  of  circle,  and  the  family  Bible,  if 
there  be  one,  is  lying,  neglected,  on  the  table,  hidden  from  sight 
by  The  New  Republic,  Vanity  Fair  (not  Thackeray's),  and  the 
Golfer's  Companion. 

How,  then,  is  the  boy  to  become  acquainted  with  "the  only 
book,"  as  Walter  Scott  would  have  it?  In  Church  and  Sunday 
School?  Many  a  boy  never  has  attended  either  of  them.  In  the 
public  school?  The  Bible  was  banished  from  it  long  ago. 

There  remains  the  private  school,  in  whose  curriculum  may 

[112] 


be  found  a  brief  course  in  "Bible,"  which,  in  the  boy's  mind, 
takes  its  place  with  his  other  lessons,  to  be  learned,  recited,  and 
joyfully  forgotten  as  soon  as  possible.  Why  should  he  know 
who  pulled  down  the  temple  of  Dagon,  or  who  slew  a  thousand 
men  with  the  jawbone  of  an  ass?  These  tragic  happenings  mean 
no  more  to  him  than  the  death  of  Baldur,  the  exploits  of  Ashur- 
banipal,  or  many  other  "old  unhappy  far-off  things  and  battles 
long  ago." 

Clearly,  then,  the  fault  lies  not  with  the  boy.  Teacher  and 
parent  must  share  the  blame,  and  it  would  ill  become  one  who 
views  the  matter  from  the  standpoint  of  the  teacher  only,  to  say 
which  is  the  more  culpable. 

Unfortunately,  the  boy's  ignorance  of  the  great  English  mas- 
terpieces is  not  limited  to  the  Bible.  Profane  literature  receives 
but  little  better  treatment  at  his  hands.  Every  boy  has  a  few 
favorite  authors,  whom  he  holds  responsible  for  all  that  has  been 
written  in  prose  or  verse  since  Shakespeare's  day.  Longfellow 
heads  the  list,  with  Tennyson  and  Kipling  following  closely; 
and  many  are  the  crimes  that  are  committed  in  their  names. 
There  is  some  reason  for  attributing  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal  to 
Lord  Tennyson,  for  he  sang  of  knights  and  their  visions;  but 
why  should  he  be  made  to  father  Two  Years  Before  the  Mast, 
Westward  Ho!  and  The  Ancient  Mariner?  Evidently,  in  the 
minds  of  many  boys,  "the  sea  is  his,  and  he  made  it."  There  are, 
however,  two  poems  which  every  boy  hails  with  joy  as  his  very 
own.  These  are,  Hiawatha  and  The  Raven.  Few  boys  have  read 
them,  and  fewer  could  quote  a  line  of  them,  but  the  majority 
identify  without  difficulty  quotations  from  either.  How  the  boy 
knows  them,  I  cannot  tell,  nor  can  he.  It  is  one  of  the  curiosities 
of  literature. 

"The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man,"  but  it  is  evident  that 
boykind  has  not  greatly  concerned  itself  with  the  study  of  boy: 
for  we  learn  that  the  centre  of  the  nervous  system  is  the  spine, 
spleen,  lungs,  pancreas,  and  "diafram";  the  bones  of  the  fore- 
arm are  the  elbow,  biceps,  forceps,  and  habeas  corpus;  the 
normal  temperature  of  the  human  body  varies  from  fifty  to  two 
hundred  and  twelve  degrees,  Fahrenheit;  and  one  element  in  the 
atmosphere  essential  to  the  support  of  human  life  is  gasoline,  the 
other  being,  presumably,  "Mobiloil." 

The  female  of  the  species,  if  not  more  deadly  than  the  male, 

[113] 


is,  in  the  boy's  mind,  more  pervasive,  for  the  feminine  of  ram  is 
doe,  dam,  yew,  roe,  nanny-goat,  and  she-ram;  while  the  feminine 
of  farmer — hardly  a  fair  question  that — is  milkmaid,  old  maid, 
farmeuse,  husband-woman,  and  Mrs.  Farmer. 

It  has  long  been  maintained  that  no  English  word  rhymes 
with  window,  but  one  test  brought  to  light  several  such  rhymes, 
among  them:  widow,  Hindu,  akimbo,  shadow,  billow,  and  po- 
tato! 

When  the  history  and  geography  of  the  United  States  are  in 
question,  the  answers  are  equally  astounding.  The  largest  city  of 
Ohio  is  Detroit,  St.  Louis,  "Sinsinnatah,"  and  "Omerhaw."  (The 
average  boy  refuses  to  be  a  slave  to  orthography.)  Washington, 
Lincoln,  Garfield,  McKinley,  and  Roosevelt  were  all  impeached, 
Farragut  was  admiral  in  the  Spanish  war,  and  Mr.  Taft  was  the 
third  President  of  the  United  States.  In  the  youthful  mind  "a 
hundred  years  are  as  a  day,"  and  it  matters  little  whether  Lee 
surrendered  at  Appomattox  or  at  Yorktown. 

There  is,  however,  a  brighter  side  of  the  picture.  Mother-wit 
often  comes  to  the  aid  of  ignorance,  and  the  task  of  the  examiner 
is  lightened  by  many  a  gleam  of  humor.  What,  for  instance, 
could  be  better  than  the  answer  which  one  boy  gave  to  the  ques- 
tion, "Who  discovered  the  Pacific  Ocean?"  His  natural  answer 
would  have  been,  "You  can  search  me,"  but  flippancy  is  not  en- 
couraged; so  he  replied,  "The  natives  who  lived  along  the  shore." 
Another  defined  conjunctivitis  as  "the  knack  of  getting  along 
with  people,"  and  a  third  would  have  a  barracuda  "a  feast  where 
oxen  are  roasted  whole." 

"How  many  legs  has  a  Kaffir?"  was  a  staggerer.  Conjec- 
ture ranged  from  two  to  twelve,  the  majority  favoring  three,  with- 
out making  it  clear  what  the  unfortunate  creature  could  do  with 
the  odd  leg. 

What  is  the  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter?  May  we  say 
in  our  haste  that  all  boys  are  fools?  Prithee,  not  too  fast. 
These  are  out-of-doors  boys,  living  in  a  world  of  motor-cars,  air- 
planes, and  wireless.  Many  a  boy  who  could  not  for  his  life  name 
a  member  of  Mr.  Harding's  Cabinet,  can,  by  the  sound  of  the 
engine,  "spot"  every  motor-car  made  in  this  country,  improvise 
an  aerial  from  the  springs  of  his  bed,  or  draw  a  model  of  a  gas- 
oline engine  that  would  do  credit  to  a  mechanical  engineer. 
Children  of  Martha,  "they  are  concerned  with  matters  hidden — 
under  the  earthline  their  altars  lie." 

[114] 


Perhaps  they  have  chosen  the  better  part.  Who  can  say? 
At  any  rate  they  are  content  to  leave  letters  to  those  who  love 
them;  to  let  their  secretaries  do  their  spelling,  and  politicians 
manage  the  government,  "while  they  finger  death  at  their  gloves' 
end." 

I,  who  can  distinguish  but  two  makes  of  automobiles  without 
giving  a  furtive  glance  at  the  hub-caps,  am  thankful  that  it  is 
mine  to  ask  the  questions,  not  to  answer  them.  I  know  full  well 
that  many  boys  who  cannot  say  whether  Keats  is  a  poet  or  a 
breakfast  food,  could  make  out  a  test  that  would  put  their  masters 
to  shame. 

Times  have  changed,  and  those  who  aspire  to  ride  the  whirl- 
wind  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  trudge  along  the  dusty 
paths  of  learning  that  their  fathers  trod. 

Talents  differ;  all  is  well  and  wisely  put; 

If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 

Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut, — 

and  he  who  judges  a  quarrel  between  the  mountain   and  the 
squirrel  has  no  easy  task. 


[115] 


THE  TEACHER'S  POINT  OF  VIEW 
MI 

FATHERS'  ASSOCIATION  DINNER,  MAY  23RD,  1925 

I  must  frankly  confess  that  I  hardly  know  what  to  say  on  the 
subject  which  has  been  assigned  to  me.  Last  night  I  went  to  the 
Study  looking  for  a  little  help  and  encouragement.  The  Doctor 
said:  "Just  tell  them  what  a  point  is,  what  a  view  is  and  what  a 
teacher  is.  That's  all.  Then  put  them  together."  I  went  back 
to  my  room  quite  encouraged,  but  when  I  thought  the  matter 
over,  I  realized  that  I  was  no  mathematician  to  define  a  point,  that 
I  had  no  airship  from  which  to  take  a  view,  and  that  I  was  the 
last  person  in  the  world  to  do  justice  to  the  modern  progressive 
educator. 

The  Doctor's  advice  was  like  the  recipe  for  hoe-cake  once 
given  by  a  famous  American  humorist:  "Take  a  hoe  and  boil  it 
to  a  thin  jell  and  then  let  her  cake." 

I  find  on  looking  at  the  program  that  the  year  of  graduation 
from  college  is  placed  after  each  man's  name.  On  referring  to 
these  figures  I  see  that  I  am  from  seventeen  to  twenty-five  years 
older  than  any  other  speaker,  and  I  claim  the  privilege  of  old 
age  to  go  back  into  the  past.  Young  men  may  see  visions,  but  old 
men  must  dream  dreams.  You  who  are  familiar  with  your  Iliad 
remember  those  two  old  heroes,  Nestor  and  Priam.  Whenever 
they  were  called  upon  for  a  few  remarks  they  would  begin  some- 
thing like  this:  "Never  have  I  seen,  nor  shall  I  see,  such  men  as 
Peirithous  and  Dryas,  shepherd  of  the  people,  Caeneus  and  Ex- 
adius,  Polyphemus  and  Theseus,  Aegeus'  more  than  mortal  son. 
They  were  the  mightiest  and  fought  with  the  mightiest,  and  de- 
stroyed them  gloriously.  No  man  now  living  could  vie  with  them, 
but  they  hearkened  unto  me,  and  obeyed  my  counsels."  I  do  not 
feel  that  way,  and  if  I  turn  to  the  past  it  is  only  to  remind  you 
what  tremendous  changes  have  occurred  within  a  generation. 

When  I  was  a  boy — and  I  wonder  if  anyone  else  here  can  say 
this — there  was  no  automobile,  no  telephone,  no  radio,  no  movie, 
no  electric  light,  nothing  which  forms  so  large  a  part  of  a  boy's 
life  today — nothing  but  books  and  plenty  of  time  to  read. 

Teaching  is  no  longer  the  joyous  adventure  that  it  once  was. 
I  heard  not  long  ago  the  story  of  a  dean  in  one  of  our  well  known 
universities.  In  order  to  earn  money  to  pay  his  way  through  col- 
lege he  taught  in  a  district  school  in  Colorado.  One  day  he  had 

[116] 


occasion  to  punish  a  young  girl,  and  after  lunch  he  saw  her 
mother  coming  down  the  path  to  the  schoolhouse  brandishing  a 
carving  knife.  He  met  the  lady  at  the  door  and  gently,  but  firmly, 
told  her  to  clear  out.  That  night  he  was  set  upon  by  friends  of 
the  lady  who  left  him  much  the  worse  for  wear.  He  decided  not 
to  teach  in  that  school  any  longer.  Such  were  the  joys  of  peda- 
gogy in  the  good  old  days. 

Now,  when  a  boy  is  disciplined,  the  mother  comes  with  the 
carving  knife  in  her  handbag,  gets  the  teacher  in  a  corner  and 
begins  to  discuss  child-psychology — whether  her  boy  is  eye-minded 
or  ear-minded,  and  the  sacredness  of  personality.  Nowadays 
everything  is  personality.  Not  long  ago  I  knew  a  man  and  his 
wife  who  lived  in  Philadelphia.  The  man  in  his  youthful  days 
played  professional  baseball  and,  therefore,  it  is  fair  to  presume 
that  at  one  time  he  had  a  modicum  of  common  sense.  His  wife 
was  the  kind  of  woman  who  would  look  at  the  stars  on  a  summer 
night  and  say:  "They  make  my  mind  ache."  I  have  never  found 
the  right  answer  to  such  a  statement.  You  can't  tell  her  to  have  it 
out.  Perhaps  one  might  ask:  "Why  don't  you  try  mind-ache 
pills?"  Well,  these  two  precious  people  had  a  boy  who  attended 
the  Philadelphia  High  School.  As  graduation  time  approached, 
the  boy  decided  that  he  must  go  down  the  Delaware  with  a  party 
of  professional  clam  diggers.  This  caused  much  agitation  in  the 
family  circle,  but  it  was  finally  decided  that  his  personality  must 
not  be  invaded.  So  he  abandoned  all  thought  of  graduation  and 
went  down  the  river  to  gather  clams.  If  it  had  been  elephants  or 
even  ducks,  one  might  have  sympathized  with  the  boy,  but  the 
clam  is  not  a  nomadic  animal.  It  would  wait  for  Him  all  summer 
and  he  could  dig  to  his  heart's  content.  However,  that  wouldn't 
do  at  all  on  account  of  his  personality. 

In  these  modern  days  we  have  many  new  theories  of  edu- 
cation. The  old  idea  was  that  the  boy  is  a  receptacle  into  which 
knowledge  was  poured  only  to  be  emptied  out  again  as  soon  as 
possible.  Now  this  idea  is  all  changed.  The  modern  boy  may 
be  likened  to  a  pond  out  of  which  one  draws  whatever  he  can 
find,  and  all  that  is  needed  is  plenty  of  time  and  tempting  bait. 

Theories  come  and  go.  They  have  their  day,  and  cease  to 
be;  but  the  "eternal  boy"  changes  not.  We  have  done  our  best 
to  spoil  him,  and  yet,  gentlemen,  I  wish  to  record  my  deliberate 
belief  that  the  heart  of  youth  is  just  as  fine  and  clean  and  true, 
today,  as  it  ever  was. 

[117] 


There  is  an  old  statement  that  the  teacher  stands  "in  loco 
parentis."  I  don't  know  who  invented  that  phrase,  whether  a 
teacher  or  a  parent.  I  am  quite  sure  that  it  was  not  a  boy. 
He  would  probably  go  as  far  as  "loco"  and  stop  there.  His  point 
of  view  would  be  like  that  of  the  Presbyterian  who  on  being  told 
that  in  Adam  we  all  sinned,  replied:  "Well,  I  didn't  vote  for  him." 
Benson,  in  his  book  on  "The  School  Master,"  says  that  the  ideal 
relation  between  parent  and  teacher  is  "mutual  confidence 
tempered  with  discretion,"  an  admirable  motto,  by  the  way,  for 
married  people. 

In  this  connection,  may  I  mention  one  or  two  qualities  which 
every  parent  and  every  teacher  should  cultivate  in  dealing  with 
boys.  The  first  is  patience,  which  implies  kindly  humor,  knowl- 
edge of  the  heart  of  the  boy,  an  understanding  of  his  problems  and 
a  very  strong  desire  to  help  him. 

The  second  quality  is  firmness.  Dr.  Cadman  remarked  the 
other  day:  "Fool  parents  with  more  money  than  brains,  are  send- 
ing their  children  down  a  gold  paved  road  to  damnation  and  the 
devil."  Strong  language,  but  well  deserved. 

A  story  is  told  of  one  of  Dr.  Turing's  boys  who  was  taking  a 
walking  trip  with  a  party  of  his  friends  during  the  summer  vaca- 
tion. When  Sunday  came,  the  boy  declined  to  walk.  He  said: 
"The  Head  wouldn't  like  it."  I  am  looking  for  the  day  in  this 
School  when  boys  will  come  here  and  pledge  their  loyalty  and 
devotion,  and  in  the  vacations  decline  to  do  things  because  the 
Head  Master  wouldn't  like  it  That  day  is  already  dawning.  Re- 
cently a  mother  told  me  that  her  boy  on  being  asked  his  reason 
for  something  which  he  did,  replied:  "I  think  it  is  right  because 
Dr.  Edwards  says  it  is  right."  He  couldn't  have  much  better 
authority. 

I  hope  the  day  will  come  very  soon  when,  as  strong  blows  are 
struck  for  the  right  and  men  are  standing  together  for  that  which 
is  high  and  noble,  people  will  say:  "Behold  the  children  of  The 
Hill,  they  pass  this  way." 


[118] 


THE  FUN  AND  HAPPINESS  OF  SCHOOL  LIFE 


FEBRUARY  21,  1927 

At  the  first  meeting  of  the  Fathers'  Association,  it  was  my 
privilege  to  speak  on  "The  Master's  Point  of  View."  My  topic 
this  evening  is  "Fun  and  Happiness  in  School  Life,"  also,  I 
fancy,  from  the  teacher's  point  of  view,  for  it  is  conceivable  that 
master  and  pupil  may  have  widely  different  views  about  fun,  if 
not  about  happiness.  In  the  old  days  a  picture  of  fun  drawn  by  a 
boy  would  represent  a  master  sitting  on  a  pin  or  thumb-tack  and 
vainly  trying  to  maintain  an  air  of  dignified  reserve,  while  his 
young  tormentors  furtively  giggle  and  inwardly  gloat.  I  well  re- 
member one  hectic  morning  at  roll  call,  when  I  sat  down  squarely 
on  such  an  instrument  of  torture  which  seemed  to  be  about  six 
inches  long.  The  Spartan  boy  with  the  fox  had  nothing  on  me, 
as  I  called  over  the  names  and  tried  to  act  natural.  When  the 
roll  call  was  over,  I  arose  with  dignity  and  departed,  leaving  the 
pin  behind.  The  next  occupant  of  the  chair  repeated  the  per- 
formance and,  oddly  enough,  blamed  me  and  not  the  original 
perpetrator  of  the  outrage.  He  was  a  singularly  unreasonable 
person. 

Drawn  by  a  master,  the  picture  of  fun  in  the  old  days  would 
represent  a  small  boy  held  up  to  ridicule  before  his  mates, 
wriggling  with  shame  and  anger  and  in  his  small  breast  hugging 
the  sweet  hope  that  some  day  he  will  be  old  enough  to  lick  the 
master. 

Happily,  times  are  changed  and  those  days  are  gone  forever. 
Where  then  are  we  to  look  for  fun  and  happiness  in  these  modern 
days?  Is  it  to  be  found  in  the  class  room?  Hardly,  I  think,  al- 
though the  joy  of  work  well  done  is  one  of  the  durable  satisfac- 
tions of  life.  When  you  gentlemen  get  together  to  talk  about  old 
school  and  college  days,  does  your  conversation  run  something 
like  this:  "What  jolly  times  we  used  to  have  in  good  old  Solid 
Geometry!  I  always  thought  that  the  proposition  about  the 
truncated  cone  was  a  scream." 

"Yes,  and  do  you  remember  the  French  irregular  verbs  and 
phonetics?  Oh,  boy!" 

"I'll  tell  the  world!  And  Burke's  Speech  —  It  was  funnier 
than  any  movie  I  ever  saw.  Oh,  those  were  the  days  of  real  sport." 

Well,  hardly.  There  is  a  certain  amount  of  happiness  to  be 
found  in  the  class  room,  but  for  fun  we  must  look  elsewhere.  On 

[119] 


the  athletic  field,  perhaps.  Well,  I  have  my  doubts.  Sport  is 
so  highly  organized  these  days  that  much  of  real  fun  has  been 
squeezed  out  of  it.  As  I  look  back  over  my  own  limited  athletic 
career,  I  can  see  that  I  began  every  game  in  the  wrong  place  and 
in  the  wrong  way — baseball  in  the  vacant  lot,  tennis  on  the  side- 
hill  court,  golf  in  a  pasture,  and  swimming  in  a  mudhole.  We 
were  untaught,  and  very  happy.  I  do  not  remember  receiving,  as 
a  boy,  a  note  which  said: 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  Tenney 

and 

Master  George  Tenney 
invite  you  to  participate  in  a  game  of 

barn  tick 
on  Thursday  afternoon 

at  two  o'clock 

Weather  permitting 

Buffet  luncheon 

The  favor  of  a  reply  is  requested 

or 

You  are  cordially  invited  to  take  part 
in  a  natatorial  exhibition 
at  the  old  swimming  hole 

back  of  the  tannery 

on  Saturday  next,  from  two  to  six 

Informal  dress 

Not  so.  When  two  or  three  met  together,  the  cry  of  "Barn 
tick,  my  first  lick,"  smote  the  sky  and  the  game  was  on — pro- 
vided somebody  could  rake  up  a  ball.  Nowadays,  as  the  poet 
sings: 

THE  COACH  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US 

The  Coach  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 
Guiding  and  steering,  he  usurps  our  powers. 
Little  we  see  in  baseball  that  is  ours. 
The  coach  sits  on  the  bench  and  plays  a  tune 
And  we,  poor  puppets,  dance  a  rigadoon. 
We  practice  every  play  a  dozen  hours, 
And  then  go  in  all  dripping  to  the  showers 

[120] 


While  high  in  heaven  rides  the  gibbous  moon. 
It  is  not  fun!     Great  Scott,  I'd  rather  be 
A  mucker,  playing  in  a  suit  outworn. 
Then  might  I,  standing  at  the  homeward  base, 
Strike  out,  or  bunt,  or  smash  it  on  the  seam, 
With  ne'er  a  coach,  with  stern  and  rockbound  face 
To  tell  the  boys  just  how  to  run  the  team. 

Where  then  shall  fun  be  found  and  where  is  the  place  of 
happiness?  I  look  back  with  the  greatest  pleasure  to  those  care- 
free hours  when  we  met,  not  as  master  and  boys,  but  as  fellow 
feasters  and  frolickers — Sunday  nights  in  the  Cottage  with  blaz- 
ing fire  on  the  hearth,  mushrooms  in  the  chafing  dish  and  the 
smell  of  coffee  in  the  air;  or  "prep"  in  the  East  Wing  when  the 
boys  filed  in  for  a  lightning  game  of  chess.  And  with  fondest 
affection  and  recollection  I  think  of  one  small  boy  who  lived  in 
the  Cottage  long  ago. 

He  was  a  Southerner  with  all  the  charm  and  chivalry  of 
the  South  as  a  background.  He  was  an  orphan  and  my  heart 
went  out  to  him.  Once  a  week  or  so,  he  would  shyly  say  as  the 
"prep"  bell  rang:  "Come  up  after  lights."  I  would  find  him  in 
bed  waiting  and  then  for  a  half  hour  or  so,  that  lonely  little  lad 
would,  from  his  white  soul,  pour  out  all  his  boyish  hopes  and 
ambitions  or  talk  about  his  home  and  kin  way  down  in  Virginny. 
He  is  a  great  preacher  now  and  I  wonder  if  he  remembers  those 
days  in  the  Cottage.  For  me,  they  are  marked  with  a  white  stone 
as  among  the  happiest  of  a  happy  life. 


[121] 


TEACHERS  THREE 


Much  have  I  traveled  in  the  realms  of  school-teaching.  In- 
deed, I  was  born  there,  for  both  my  parents  were  teachers  in  their 
early  days,  and  my  father  never  entirely  divested  himself  of  a 
certain  pedagogical  manner  of  speech.  His  quiet  but  decided  "we 
will  not  further  discuss  that  matter,  if  you  please,"  which  served 
to  silence,  if  not  convince,  his  unruly  brood,  was  a  survival  of  the 
good  old  days  when  the  teacher  had  the  last  word,  and  "if  you 
please"  meant  "whether  you  please  or  not."  Graduated  from  two 
preparatory  schools,  and  one  college,  I  chose  teaching  as  my  life 
work,  and  drifted  from  one  school  to  another,  until  my  bark  — 
and  bite  —  came  to  anchor  in  the  haven  where  it  has  been  moored 
for  nearly  a  generation. 

As  pupil  and  colleague,  I  must  have  known,  more  or  less 
intimately,  several  hundred  teachers.  Of  these,  I  love  best  to 
think  of  three,  not  because  they  were  wiser  than  the  others, 
for  only  one  was  wise;  or  better  disciplinarians,  for  two  had  fiery 
tempers  not  under  perfect  control  ;  or  more  highly  cultured  —  only 
one  was  a  Harvard  man;  but  because  in  the  highest  degree  they 
possessed  the  gift  of  the  gods  which,  for  lack  of  a  better  word, 
may  be  called  inspiration. 

From  one  I  learned  that  the  honor  of  a  small  boy  is  as 
sacred  as  that  of  a  man;  from  the  second  I  gained  a  habit  of 
industry  which  I  have  never  been  able  entirely  to  overcome;  the 
third  taught  his  boys  to  turn  their  backs  upon  the  past  which  had 
betrayed  them,  and  by  the  noble  confidence  which  he  reposed  in 
them  restored  their  lost  self-respect.  All  three  hitched  their 
wagons  to  a  star,  but  were  never  so  busy  guiding  their  stellar 
steeds  that  they  could  not  stop  for  one  more  eager  little  passen- 
ger. They  drove  furiously  over  rough  roads,  but  like  the  famous 
stage-driver  of  the  Sierras,  they  took  care  that  not  more  than  three 
wheels  should  be  in  the  air  at  the  same  time. 

The  first  of  the  three  was  principal  of  the  high  school  in  the 
little  town  in  which  I  passed  a  happy,  if  uneventful,  boyhood.  This 
village  of  Blair  owed  its  name  to  a  well-known  manufacturer  of 
patent  medicines  who  wished  to  see  his  wares  advertised  not  only 
on  the  labels  of  his  bottles,  but  also  on  the  map  of  the  common- 
wealth in  which  he  lived. 

Influenced  by  the  substantial  arguments  of  this  gentleman, 

[122] 


the  town  fathers  sold  their  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage — the 
birthright  being  the  honorable  name  which  the  town  had  borne 
since  its  foundation,  and  the  pottage  a  town  hall  of  imposing 
size  and  surpassing  ugliness,  built  in  a  mongrel  style  of  architec- 
ture. As  one  disgruntled  taxpayer  remarked:  "It  looks  like  hell 
with  the  roof  on,"  and  the  characterization  met  with  general 
approval,  in  spite  of  the  fervid  language  in  which  it  was  clothed. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  write,  Blair,  later  famous  as  the  site  of 
a  vast  army  camp,  owed  its  importance  to  three  lines  of  rail- 
way which  formed  a  junction  within  its  borders  and,  as  its  envious 
and  less  favored  neighbors  were  pleased  to  remark,  made  it  an 
admirable  place  of  residence  for  those  who  wished  to  get  away 
often  and  quickly.  Three  times  a  day — morning,  noon  and 
night — trains  arriving  from  every  point  of  the  compass  woke  the 
slumbering  town  from  its  lethargy.  Whistles  blew,  bells  clanged. 
The  saloons  which  adorned  "railroad  row"  did  a  thriving  busi- 
ness. Then  the  trains  departed  as  noisily  as  they  came  and  left 
the  world  to  darkness  and  to — us. 

There  were  few  entertainments  in  our  village.  Movies  had 
not  arrived.  Church  "sociables"  and  an  occasional  magic  lantern 
show  of  a  hopelessly  educational  sort  were  our  only  diversions. 
Cards  were  viewed  with  horror  as  the  tools  of  the  devil.  Croquet 
was  the  favorite  outdoor  sport.  There  were,  however,  books  a 
plenty,  and  happy  were  those  who  loved  to  read.  For  them  the 
long  winter  evenings  were  all  too  short.  For  others  nothing  was 
left  but  heavily  to  go  to  bed  and  long  for  the  morning  when  one 
could  go  down  and  see  the  trains  come  in  again. 

Such  was  the  town  of  Blair  when  James  Lowell  came  to  stir 
it  up  and  incidentally  to  act  as  principal  of  the  high  school  and 
superintendent  of  schools.  In  those  days  the  principal  had  no 
assistant,  and  "Jimmie,"  as  we  soon  called  him  when  he  was  not  in 
hearing  distance,  was  expected  to  teach  all  the  classes,  maintain 
discipline,  visit  the  other  schools  and  guide,  counsel  and  befriend 
forty  or  fifty  boys  and  girls  of  all  ages  and  several  colors.  It 
was  a  task  to  make  a  Samson  faint  and  fall  by  the  way,  and 
"Jimmie"  was  no  Samson.  He  was  a  frail  little  man,  weighing 
perhaps  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds,  with  delicate  limbs 
and  the  smallest  of  hands  and  feet.  But  his  diminutive  frame 
was  packed  full  of  energy  and  his  head  was  Websterian.  He 
must  have  worn,  I  am  sure,  a  number  eight  hat. 

Often  have  I  thought,  with  a  feeling  akin  to  pain,  of  that 

[123] 


devoted  man's  "grind."  Six  hours  a  day,  five  days  a  week,  he 
toiled  with  never  a  minute's  respite,  while  written  papers  on  every 
subject  under  the  sun  accumulated  to  the  end  that  his  hands  and 
mind  should  not  be  idle  during  the  nights  and  holidays,  while  his 
pupils  slept  or  played.  Small  wonder  that  on  rare  occasions  his 
patience  gave  out  and  he  spared  neither  rod  nor  tongue  while  we 
sat  tight  and  waited  to  see  where  next  the  lightning  would  strike. 

One  scene  I  shall  never  forget.  The  school  had  no  piano, 
and  the  town  refused  to  buy  one.  Nothing  daunted,  "Jimmie" 
organized  a  series  of  "shows,"  dramatic,  calisthenic,  musical,  any- 
thing to  interest  the  public  and  lure  from  tightly  buttoned  pockets 
the  hard-earned  quarters.  These  shows  were  an  immense  success. 
The  piano  was  bought  and  placed  on  the  platform,  a  thing  to 
gloat  over,  for  had  we  not  earned  it  ourselves?  Not  many  days 
later  one  of  the  larger  boys  was  summoned  to  the  desk  for  some 
trifling  offense.  Hot  words  ensued.  Finally  teacher  and  boy 
clinched  and  violently  lurched  against  the  piano,  which  lost  its 
hold  on  the  platform,  turned  completely  over,  and  struck  the  floor 
with  a  resounding  crash.  From  that  day  it  was  a  broken  thing, 
dissonant,  cacophonous.  One  hectic  moment  had  brought  to 
naught  the  patient  work  of  a  year. 

"Well,"  I  hear,  "this  seems  to  have  been  a  forceful  little  man, 
but  where  does  the  inspiration  come  in?  Smashing  pianos,  in- 
deed!" 

Ah,  but  that  was  an  accident,  and  had  it  not  been  for  "Jim- 
mie" we  should  never  have  thought  of  a  piano,  to  say  nothing  of 
earning  one.  At  any  rate,  one  must  admit  that  he  managed  to 
hold  the  attention  of  his  pupils. 

"But  why,"  you  persist,  "does  Ben  Adhem's  name  lead  all 
the  rest?"  Because  he  was  the  first  teacher  who  put  us  on  our 
honor.  Very  simply  he  told  us  one  red  letter  day  that  he  should 
be  away  an  hour  or  so,  that  he  should  expect  us  to  study  quietly 
during  his  absence,  and  that,  as  far  as  conduct  was  concerned, 
he  should  leave  that  to  our  honor.  A  doubtful  experiment  in 
days  when  "honor  systems"  were  unknown,  but  it  worked.  "Jim- 
mie" had  laid  a  spell  upon  us  and  many  unruly  girls  and  boys 
that  day  learned  a  lesson  which  they  never  forgot.  Old  fogies 
shook  their  heads.  Such  things  were  not  done  in  their  day.  What 
did  children  know  about  honor? 

Anything  might  have  happened.  But  nothing  did  happen. 
Work  went  on  as  usual  and  I  am  bound  to  confess  that  the  room 

[124] 


was  quieter  in  "Jimmie's"  absence  than  at  times  when  he  was 
present.  One  restless  miss,  who  thought  the  occasion  suitable  for 
a  display  of  her  conversational  powers,  was  greeted  with  a  storm 
of  hisses  and  bowed  before  the  force  of  an  adverse  public  opinion. 

"What  is  this  honor  business?"  asked  a  boy  after  school 
was  over.  One  of  the  older  boys  enlightened  him. 

"If  'Jimmie'  gave  you  a  dollar  to  keep  for  him  you'd  hold 
on  to  it  until  he  wanted  it.  Well,  he  just  gives  you  your  honor  to 
keep  while  he  is  gone.  When  he  comes  back,  and  asks  for  it,  you 
don't  want  to  tell  him  that  you've  lost  it.  No,  siree.  Well,  that's 
putting  you  on  your  honor." 

Many  times  after  that,  "Jimmie"  left  us  for  longer  or  shorter 
periods  as  his  various  duties  called  him,  and  never  was  his  con- 
fidence abused.  And  that  is  why,  when  honor  is  the  subject  of 
the  story,  my  thoughts  go  back  to  James  Lowell,  hard-worked,  hot- 
tempered  "Jimmie,"  a  pioneer  in  the  field  of  honor. 

Now  the  scene  shifts.  The  second  member  of  my  trio  was 
classical  master  in  a  private  school  for  boys  in  a  city  which  at 
that  time  had  some  right  to  consider  itself  the  intellectual  center 
of  the  universe.  The  school  was  an  excellent  one,  although  today 
it  might  be  considered  hopelessly  behind  the  times.  Much  atten- 
tion was  given  to  the  dead  languages,  and  there  was  nothing 
vocational  in  the  course  of  study.  The  click  of  typewriters  was 
not  heard.  Perhaps  they  were  not  invented.  There  were  no  classes 
in  shorthand,  no  manual  training — nothing  useful.  Still,  many 
misguided  parents,  whose  names  stood  high  in  the  roll  of  the 
city's  intellectual  elite,  sent  their  boys  there  to  waste  their  time 
over  subjects  which  could  be  of  little  use  to  them  in  the  larger 
life  beyond. 

When  I  entered  this  school  I  had  read  all  of  the  Latin  and 
Greek  required  for  admission  to  the  college  of  my  choice,  but  a 
year's  vacation  had  loosened  my  feeble  grasp  of  those  subjects, 
and  the  powers  that  were,  much  to  my  disgust,  decided  that  I  must 
repeat  them  ab  initio  et  ad  nauseam.  So  I  came  under  the  sway  of 
"Mr.  Albert,"  or  "Chappy,"  as  we  liked  to  call  him. 

Tall  and  slim,  cultured  to  the  finger  tips,  he  seemed  to  my 
boyish  eyes  the  embodiment  of  all  that  was  noble  and  heroic.  His 
temper,  if  he  had  one,  was  under  perfect  control.  His  voice  was 
never  raised  in  anger.  That  Olympian  brow  was  never  ruffled, 
but  instinctively  one  knew  that  the  thunderbolt  was  near  at  hand. 

Often  he  must  have  been  bored  almost  to  tears  by  our  stupid- 

[125] 


ity.  He  cast  pearls  of  humor  before  us,  and  we  heeded  them  not. 
He  piped  into  us  and  we  did  not  dance.  Still  he  piped  on,  and — 
we  worshiped  him.  A  word  of  praise  from  him,  even  an  approv- 
ing glance,  brightened  the  day.  Many  times  I  have  tried  to  dis- 
cover the  secret  of  his  power,  but  in  vain.  He  did  not  urge  us  to 
work;  it  was  unnecessary.  He  never  pointed  out  his  favorite  pass- 
ages, trying  to  convince  us  that  they  were  beautiful.  Somehow,  we 
saw  them  through  his  eyes,  and  their  beauty  stood  revealed.  In 
brief,  he  possessed  a  wand  of  magic  power  and  its  name  was  in- 
spiration. 

For  him  we  worked  joyously  and  came  to  love  the  work.  For 
the  first  time  I  felt  the  joy  of  accomplishment.  Life  stirred  among 
the  dry  bones  of  Greek  Grammar,  Latin  Composition  and  all  their 
train,  subjects  which  previously  had  seemed  dead  beyond  the  hope 
of  revival.  Old  heroes  lived  again.  Even  that  solemn  prig, 
Aeneas,  occasionally  appeared  more  than  half  human.  Our  minds 
awoke,  looked  out  upon  the  world,  and  found  it  good. 

Many  years  have  passed.  The  school  and  the  modest  building 
which  housed  it  have  disappeared.  Ancient  landmarks  have  been 
removed.  The  unsightly  hole  in  the  ground  to  which  daring  boys 
retired  to  smoke  unseen  a  furtive  cigarette  is  now  a  stately  city 
square.  Where  once  the  lumbering  horse  car  crawled  along  its 
weary  way  motor  vehicles  of  every  description  now  whiz  and  honk. 
Not  so  long  ago  I  met  an  old  schoolmate  and  proposed  that  we 
visit  the  scene  of  our  early  struggles.  As  we  strolled  along  we 
noted  many  signs  of  progress  and  paused  to  look  at  one,  huge  and 
unsightly,  with  a  single  word,  "Automobiles." 

"Odd  word,  that,"  I  said,  as  we  resumed  our  march.  "It's  a 
hybrid,  half  Latin  and  half  Greek.  Chappy  wouldn't  have  liked 
it." 

"That  he  wouldn't,"  assented  my  companion.  "Wasn't  he  a 
wonder!  I  wish  I  could  see  him  and  tell  him  how  much  I  owe 
him." 

"Why,"  I  replied,  "Latin  and  Greek  cannot  help  you  much  in 
your  business." 

"No,"  was  the  answer,  "but  hard  work  can,  and  he  taught 
me  how  to  'plug.'  No  royal  road  to  learning  with  him.  They 
don't  seem  to  believe  that,  now-a-days,  more's  the  pity.  I  wish 
my  boy  could  have  such  a  teacher.  He  wouldn't  think  that  the 
shortest  distance  between  two  points  is  a  curve.  Why,  do  you 
know,  that  boy  can't  even  spell.  What  is  worse,  he  seems  to  think 

[126] 


it  is  a  mark  of  distinction,  like  gout,  or  cauliflower  ears.  Says 
his  teacher  can't  spell,  either.  She  calls  it  'congenital.'  Con- 
genital idiocy,  I  call  it.  I  have  no  patience  with  this  get-wise- 
easy  business.  All  damn  nonsense.  I  take  off  my  hat  to 
'Chappy'." 

"Same  here,"  said  I.  And  the  policeman  on  the  corner  look- 
ed suspiciously  at  two  men,  no  longer  young,  standing,  hat  in 
hand,  and  looking  with  reminiscent  gaze  at  a  sign  which  said  in 
chaste  and  simple  language,  "Ask  Dad,  he  knows." 

Again  the  scene  changes  to  a  quaintly  beautiful  town  in 
Connecticut,  the  site  of  the  little  school  in  which  I  served  my 
apprenticeship  as  a  teacher.  The  two  years  which  I  spent  there 
were  among  the  happiest  in  my  life,  for  there  I  came  into  intimate 
association  with  that  best  conditioned  and  unwearied  spirit  in 
doing  courtesies,  who  was  the  head  master  of  the  school — and 
the  third  member  of  my  triumvirate.  "A  native  of  Ireland,  though 
not  born  there,"  he  had  the  rollicking  disposition,  the  bright  and 
laughing  eye,  the  touch  of  romance  tinged  with  melancholy,  which 
characterize  the  sons  of  St.  Patrick  wherever  they  are  found.  Add 
an  impulsive  nature,  a  hot  temper  which  sometimes  boiled  over, 
a  heart  as  big  as  an  ox,  and  a  quick  and  all-embracing  sym- 
pathy, and  you  have  the  "Fessor,"  as  everybody  called  him. 

Born  and  bred  by  the  sea,  he  loved  her  in  all  her  various 
moods  and  was  never  so  happy  as  when  he  sat,  pipe  in  mouth,  at 
the  tiller  of  his  ancient  schooner,  with  boys  of  all  sizes  sprawled 
about  its  deck,  while  with  infinite  skill  he  threaded  the  narrow 
and  tortuous  channels  of  the  Sound.  Such  a  man  could  ill  endure 
the  drudgery  of  school  routine,  and  manifold  were  the  means  by 
which  he  sought  to  relieve  its  monotony.  Once  I  heard  him  in 
all  gravity  propound  to  a  class  of  delighted  youngsters  the  fol- 
lowing query:  "Are  the  mountains  of  Africa,  in  the  main,  high, 
low,  Jack  or  the  game?" 

I  love  best  to  remember  him  as  before  "lights"  he  would 
gather  the  boys  about  him  and  with  keen  delight  read  aloud 
Henry  Kingsley's  masterpiece,  "Ravenshoe,"  or  "Geoffrey  Ham- 
lin,"  another  fascinating  tale  by  the  same  author.  "Fessor's" 
Irish  brogue  was  inimitable,  and  nobody  who  heard  him  will 
ever  forget  the  story  of  the  holy  "St.  Bridget  and  the  'rid-nosed 
oyster  of  Carlingford.'  "  Henry  Kingsley  is  little  read  now-a- 
days,  and  I  hesitate  to  mention  him  for  fear  that  someone  may  say 
reproachfully,  "Wasn't  his  first  name  Charles?"  No,  his  name 

[127] 


was  Henry,  and  his  books  make  delightful  reading  although 
they  may  not  be  worthy  of  a  place  among  the  foremost  English 
classics.  "Fessor"  delighted  in  them,  read  them  aloud  every 
year,  and  quoted  from  them  freely  on  all  occasions. 

"Well,"  I  hear  you  say,  "doubtless  'Fessor,'  as  you  call  him, 
was  a  genial  companion,  but  good  fellowship  is  not  so  rare,  even 
among  schoolmasters.  Why  single  him  out?" 

Because  to  him  more  than  to  most  men  was  revealed  the 
inmost  heart  of  the  boy.  To  his  kindly  scrutiny  boys  laid  bare 
their  naked  souls,  and  marveled  at  themselves  as  they  did  so. 
"  'Fessor'  never  looks  shocked,"  said  one  of  his  flock.  "He  just 
smiles  and  you  tell  him  everything."  Many  boys  who  had  been 
buffeted  about  from  school  to  school  until  they  had  almost  lost 
faith  in  themselves,  here  came  to  rest  at  last  and  were  amazed  to 
find  themselves  trusted,  confided  in,  even  consulted  about  the  best 
methods  of  helping  lame  dogs  over  stiles. 

"Why,  'Fessor',"  said  one  such  astonished  youth,  "I  don't 
believe  you  know  what  sort  of  boy  I  am.  I  have  been  expelled 
from  three  schools." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  "Fessor,"  "I  know  all  about  it,  and  that  is 
why  I  trust  you.  You  will  make  a  good  pilot,  for  you  know  all 
the  rocks  in  the  harbor.  Just  steer  straight." 

"You  can't  lie  to  the  Doctor,"  said  one  of  Thomas  Arnold's 
boys,  "for  he  believes  you  every  time." 

"You  can't  go  back  on  'Fessor',"  said  his  boys,  "for  he  trusts 
you  so." 

Years  have  passed.  The  sound  of  "Fessor's"  voice  has  long 
been  stilled;  the  school  has  had  its  day  and  ceased  to  be.  But 
school  and  "Fessor"  still  live  in  the  grateful  memories  of  men 
whose  souls  were  restored  by  one  man's  trust. 

Such  were  the  Three.  Not  all  great  teachers.  Only  one  was 
great.  Nor  were  they  wise  above  their  fellows.  Only  one  was  a 
college  graduate.  But  all  three  were  men  who  had  something 
valuable  to  give,  and  gave  it. 

And  therefore  I  say  unto  you,  let  your  school  be  where  it 
will,  in  a  stately  building  equipped  with  every  modern  appliance, 
in  a  little  old  red  schoolhouse,  or  at  the  end  of  a  log,  provided 
the  log  be  not  too  long;  let  the  studies  be  what  they  may,  as 
long  as  they  are  studied;  but  seek  ye  first  a  man  who  can  in- 
spire, and  all  else  shall  be  added  unto  you. 

[128] 


PROFESSOR 


Fourteen  years  have  gone  round  since  Professor  arose  to 
tread  the  road  of  death  at  a  call  unforeseen,  sudden.  He  sleeps 
beneath  the  chapel  cloister  on  the  Hill  to  which  he  gave  his 
life  and  within  sound  of  the  voices  which  he  loved  to  hear. 

His  mural  tablet  bears  this  inscription  : 

In  loving  memory  of  John  Meigs 

Strong,  impetuous,  tender 

Servant  of  Christ,  Master  of  Boys,  Maker  of  Men 

His  courage  was  the  foundation  of  this  School 

His  passion  for  truth  its  light. 

Strength,  impetuosity,  tenderness  —  such  were  the  character- 
istics of  the  man,  and  it  is  in  terms  of  these  that  I  wish  very 
simply  and  informally  to  speak  of  him  today. 

My  first  view  of  the  Professor  in  action  was  at  the  opening 
of  the  autumn  term  in  1890.  During  the  summer  a  fire  had  swept 
over  The  Hill.  Professor  was  in  the  West  but  when  the  news 
reached  him,  he  started  for  home  without  delay,  using  his  time 
on  the  train  in  drawing  up  plans  for  a  bigger  and  better  Hill. 
Work  was  begun  at  once  and  pushed  on  by  night  and  day.  The 
workmen,  fired  by  Professor's  enthusiasm,  did  wonders  and  the 
School  opened  early  in  October.  The  first  night,  we  gathered 
in  the  School  Room  for  evening  prayers.  The  room,  though 
ready  for  business,  lacked  the  finishing  touches  and  workmen 
left  as  we  entered  die  room. 

There  was  no  organ  and  no  choir  and  as  Professor  started 
the  first  hymn,  "Holy,  Holy,  Holy,"  I  said  to  myself,  "It's  too 
high,  he  never  can  carry  it  through."  I  didn't  know  the  man.  The 
hymn  went  triumphantly  through  to  its  end,  Professor's  power- 
ful voice  dominating  all  the  rest.  Then  came  a  short  passage  of 
Scripture  followed  by  the  prayer  —  strong,  helpful,  inspiring. 

Then  Professor  summoned  to  the  desk  boy  after  boy,  call- 
ing all,  new  and  old  boys  alike,  by  their  first  names  and  settling 
each  boy's  case  with  a  few  crisp,  decisive  words.  I  noticed  that 
there  was  no  appeal. 

I  had  been  teaching  several  years  but  I  had  never  seen  in 
school  or  college  such  an  evidence  of  power.  Professor  was 

[129] 


there,  as  always,  master  of  the  situation,  strong,  calm  and  self- 
controlled. 

The  Bihle  says:  "If  thou  faintest  in  the  day  of  adversity,  thy 
strength  is  small."  Or  in  the  more  familiar  words  of  the  modern 
poet: 

"The  man  worth  while 
Is  the  man  who  can  smile 
When  everything  goes  dead  wrong." 

The  year  1902  was  at  The  Hill  a  year  to  try  strong  men's 
souls.  During  the  Christmas  vacation,  early  on  Sunday  morning, 
fire  broke  out  in  the  East  Wing.  The  flames  spread  rapidly  and 
for  a  time  it  looked  as  if  the  whole  building  was  doomed.  On 
Saturday  one  of  the  old  boys  telephoned  asking  if  he  might  come 
out  and  spend  a  quiet  Sunday.  Professor  bade  him  come  by  all 
means  and  added:  "Bring  your  sneakers."  About  ten  o'clock  on 
Sunday  morning  Professor,  who  was  watching  the  destruction  of 
his  property,  caught  sight  of  the  boy  perched  on  the  roof  of  the 
School  Room,  drenched  with  rain,  blackened  by  smoke  and  fight- 
ing furiously,  and  called  out  cheerfully,  "Hey,  Upton,  got  your 
sneakers  on?" 

Hardly  had  the  School  assembled  for  the  Winter  Term  when 
an  epidemic  of  pneumonia  broke  out.  There  was  no  infirmary  at 
that  time  and  the  whole  upper  floor  of  the  Main  Building  was 
given  over  to  the  sick  and  their  nurses.  Finally,  to  avoid  a  panic, 
which  seemed  imminent,  the  School  was  closed.  And  then,  at 
Commencement  the  water  supply  of  the  School  became  polluted, 
and  hardly  had  the  boys  reached  their  homes  when  news  began 
to  come  of  that  dread  scourge,  typhoid.  Professor,  at  Lake 
George,  in  agony  of  spirit  awaited  day  after  day  the  mail  which 
brought  tidings  of  new  cases  until  the  number  passed  one  hundred, 
and  there  were  four  deaths. 

The  common  judgment  would  be  that  no  school  could  go 
through  such  an  ordeal  unscathed,  but  The  Hill  came  forth 
from  its  fiery  baptism  stronger  than  ever,  because  at  its  head  were 
a  man  and  a  woman  who  could  meet  disaster  and  who  knew  not 
defeat  In  the  autumn  came  the  father  of  one  of  the  boys  who  had 
fallen  a  victim  to  typhoid,  bringing  his  only  surviving  son.  "I  wish 
to  leave  my  boy  with  you,"  he  said,  "because  I  know  that  you 
have  made  The  Hill  the  safest  school  in  the  United  States." 

[130] 


<$> «s> 

The  School  survived,  but  those  days  and  nights  of  grief 
and  anxiety  left  their  lasting  mark.  Professor  was  never  quite 
his  old  self  after  that  fearful  summer.  The  School  was  saved, 
but  at  a  heavy  cost. 

****** 

At  Gordium  in  ancient  Phrygia  was  a  chariot  whose  yoke  was 
fastened  by  an  intricate  knot.  The  legend  ran  that  he  who  found 
the  secret  of  the  knot  would  become  master  of  the  Eastern 
world.  After  many  years  came  that  fiery  young  Macedonian, 
Alexander,  just  starting  on  the  career  of  conquest  which  ended 
in  the  downfall  of  the  Persian  Empire.  With  one  stroke  of  his 
sword  he  cut  the  knot  and  solved  the  problem  of  the  ages.  No 
doubt  his  timid  counsellor,  Parmenio,  shook  his  head,  only  to 
admit  after  the  Persian  sun  had  gone  down  in  a  sea  of  blood  that 
thus  impetuous  spirits  must  deal  with  obstacles  which  block  their 
path. 

****** 

When  Professor  came  to  The  Hill,  a  young  man,  he  found  a 
school  poorly  equipped,  with  few  boys,  few  buildings,  no  reputa- 
tion and  no  money.  His  only  endowment  was  his  lion-like 
courage  and  a  vision  of  The  Hill  to  be,  a  city  whose  walls  could 
not  be  hid.  He  resolved  to  make  The  Hill  the  best  preparatory 
school  of  its  kind  in  the  land,  and  in  the  judgment  of  more  than 
one  college  president  he  succeeded  in  doing  so.  Every  day 
brought  its  Gordian  knot  to  be  severed  with  one  swift  stroke, 
while  slower  souls  pondered  and  shook  their  heads. 

Professor's  mental  processes  were  lightninglike.  His  de- 
cisions were  quick  and  once  made  were  seldom  changed.  Some- 
times he  seemed  to  err.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  at  times  he 
realized  that  his  judgment  had  been  at  fault,  but  with  him  life  was 
too  short  for  excuses  or  explanations.  His  motto,  like  that  of 
Columbus  was:  "Sail  on!" 

"What  shall  I  say,  brave  Admiral,  say, 

If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn?" 
"Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day, 
Sail  on!  Sail  on!  Sail  on!  and  on!" 

When  the  School  was  closed  in  the  winter  of  1902  I  was 
waiting  in  my  recitation  room  for  the  class  which  recited  at  10.15. 

[131] 


The  bell  rang  but  no  class  came.  The  halls  were  strangely  quiet 
and  I  went  out  to  investigate.  I  found  that  the  boys  had  been 
called  together  at  ten  o'clock,  informed  that  the  School  was  to 
close  and  directed  to  leave  on  the  next  train.  Most  of  them  had 

already  departed. 

»«**** 

Professor's  impulsiveness  sometimes  betrayed  him  in  his 
judgment  of  men.  Teachers  who  in  the  easy  give  and  take  of  the 
summer  vacation  seemed  prodigies  of  wisdom  and  tact,  were 
engaged  on  the  spot  and  brought  to  The  Hill,  only  to  fade  and 
languish  in  its  bracing  air.  Like  the  flower  of  the  field  they 
flourished,  but  the  wind  passed  over  them  and  they  were  gone  and 
the  place  thereof  knew  them  no  more. 

Professor  had  little  toleration  for  poor  work  on  the  part  of 
man  or  boy.  Slip-shod  methods  and  ill-digested  schemes  to  him 
were  anathema.  He  was  always  ready  to  hear  and  consider  sug- 
gestions made  in  good  faith,  but  those  who  offered  them  soon 
learned  thoroughly  to  test  their  plans  before  they  presented  them 
for  his  consideration. 

For  several  years  after  he  came  to  The  Hill  Professor  taught 
the  classics  and  I  have  heard  from  boys  who  had  the  benefit  of  his 
instruction  that  recitations  with  him,  while  highly  stimulating,  left 
something  to  be  desired  in  the  way  of  enjoyment.  Rightly  or 
wrongly,  Professor  believed  that  boys  were  sent  to  school  to 
study  and  he  acted  on  that  supposition. 

****** 

I  can  think  of  no  nobler  epitaph  for  a  man  than  this:  "Little 
children  loved  him."  Many  boys,  especially  those  who  had 
something  to  conceal,  were  afraid  of  Professor.  They  feared  the 
keen  glance  of  his  eye,  and  his  outspoken  scorn  of  everything  mean 
or  underhanded.  But  little  children,  whose  intuitions  are  seldom 
mistaken,  knew  him  for  their  friend  and  hailed  his  coming  with 
joy.  Mrs.  Raymond,  Professor's  beloved  Aunt  Sallie,  tells  this 
story  of  the  days  when  Professor,  then  a  young  man,  was  a  wel- 
come visitor  in  her  house: 

"One  Sunday,  it  being  stormy,  the  children  stayed  at  home 
and  I  said  that  I  would  have  Sunday  School  for  them.  My  little 
Dwight  was  only  four  years  old.  His  sister  and  brother  were  in 
the  class  and  I  began  and  asked  the  usual  questions :  'Who  was  the 
first  man  and  the  first  woman?'  Then  I  said,  'Now  I  am  going  to 
ask  you  a  question  that  is  not  in  the  catechism  and  I  want  you  to 

[132] 


think  it  over  very  carefully.  Who  was  the  first  person  that  God 
sent  into  the  world?  He  was  so  good  that  everybody  who  loved 
Him  would  be  made  good  and  He  could  do  anything  He  wanted  to 
help  people.'  The  boy  replied,  'Mr.  Meigs.'  The  other  children 
giggled  with  surprise.  I  responded  as  seriously  as  I  could,  'Oh, 
no,  my  dear,'  and  in  a  most  indignant  tone  he  said.  'Who  then!' 
I  said,  'It  was  Jesus  Christ,'  and  he  turned  around  to  his  sister 
and  said  in  a  loud  whisper,  pointing  to  me  with  scorn,  'Mudder 
says  Jesus  Christ,  I  say  'Meigs.' " 

Professor  was  the  soul  of  generosity.  He  always  carried  in 
his  pocket  a  big  roll  of  bills  on  which  he  freely  drew  whenever 
the  opportunity  arose  to  relieve  distress  or  give  pleasure. 

He  often  invited  a  few  boys  to  join  him  in  an  expedition 
to  some  place  of  interest  nearby,  and  on  these  occasions  he  laid 
aside  his  cares  and  anxieties  and  became  the  merriest  of  the 
party.  It  was  my  good  fortune  to  be  invited  to  join  him  and  a 
few  of  the  older  boys  in  a  trip  to  the  home  of  a  noted  collector  of 
Indian  relics,  who  lived  near  Trenton.  We  went  by  train  to  that 
town  and  then  hired  a  cab  to  take  us  to  our  destination.  Professor 
bought  a  bunch  of  bananas  and  seemed  not  at  all  shocked  when 
the  boys  threw  the  skins  on  top  of  the  sombre  vehicle,  where  they 
added  an  agreeable  splash  of  color.  Finally  one  of  the  boys  who 
had  an  abundant  supply  of  chewing  gum  induced  Professor  to 
share  with  him  the  delicacy.  After  a  few  minutes  Professor  tried 
to  remove  the  gum  and  it  stuck  to  his  fingers.  When  we  left  the 
cab  he  rubbed  his  hand  on  the  ground,  which  made  matters  far 
worse,  and  when  we  found  ourselves  in  the  presence  of  the  cele- 
brated naturalist,  Professor  held  out  his  hand  well  decorated  with 
a  mixture  of  dirt  and  gum.  The  boys  were  charmed,  but  nobody 
enjoyed  the  joke  more  than  Professor  himself. 


Such  was  Professor,  with  a  giant's  strength,  the  soul  of  a 
man,  and  the  joyous  heart  of  a  boy. 

"Had  he  his  faults?    Well,  he  was  just  a  man 
And  therefore  did  we  love  him.     A  great  man 
In  all  he  did;  and  mightily  he  warred 
Against  the  flesh.     He  ever  scorned  to  give 
Ground  in  the  fight.     His  noble  spirit  rose 

[133] 


Triumphant  over  age  and  grief  and  pain. 

He  toiled  until  the  end  and  finished  all. 

Death  found  him  at  his  post,  his  work  was  done, 

Right  gladly  did  he  hear  the  trumpet  call 

That  rang  victorious  o'er  a  well-fought  field. 

He  stripped  him  of  his  arms,  he  sheathed  his  sword 

He  laid  his  faithful,  weary  body  down 

To  sleep.    Ah!  who  would  grudge  him  of  his  rest! 

'But,  0  if  I  might  see  again  his  smile 
So  tender,  hear  his  voice  or  meet  again 
Those  eyes  that  looked  so  far  and  saw  so  deep. 

Nay,  the  dawn  is  drawing  nigh 
And  we  must  raise  our  standard  with  the  sun, 
Buckle  each  strap,  close  up  the  ranks  and  on, 
On  with  our  colors  to  another  war, 
When  shall  our  city  stand  and  men  shall  say 
In  years  unborn,  on  many  a  distant  field: 
The  children  of  The  Hill  have  passed  this  way!'  " 


[134] 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000162939     3 


